


Starships

by spacestationtrustfund



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, Emotional manipulation/abuse warning for Marius's life, F/M, M/M, Multi, death warning for essentially everyone who dies in the brick
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 03:59:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 31,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9217769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacestationtrustfund/pseuds/spacestationtrustfund
Summary: The universe is so much bigger than anyone should be able to fathom. (The AU that is essentially an excuse to write about Cosette in space.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 'Should I write a Les Mis space AU?' I asked.  
> 'YES, MOCHI, PLEASE DO,' you responded.
> 
> -
> 
> More detailed warnings: this fic contains or will contain emotional manipulation/abuse to a certain extent, alcohol/drug mentions/use, semi-graphic violence, and various deaths. Also generic warning for general bad decision-making and rationalisation of stupid ideas/martyring yourself for a cause you don't believe in because your crush is going to die.
> 
> -
> 
> Title credit to [Alex](http://lexiconallie.tumblr.com); it's a very Courfeyrac title, in my opinion.
> 
> -
> 
> Later chapters of this fic were influenced pretty heavily by [this art](http://pembroke.tumblr.com/post/44256930591/bettiebloodshed-commissioned-me-for-a-space-au-so)

Mt. SAINT M., 3017, FANTINE                                                                                                    

Fantine doesn’t remember. Her head aches, and she feels a stranger in her own skin, like she’s floating, weightless, in zero gravity; her skin prickles and the room swims and bucks about her, even with the stabilisers surely turned on.

 _Asphyxiation_ , that was the first thing she learned – don’t take off your suit, don’t go out into space without a suit. Her chest is impossibly heavy.

She didn’t think dying would feel like this.

She didn’t think she’d feel at all.

The Mayor is kneeling by her bed. She sees rather than feels that he’s holding her hand in both his own, his head bowed, lips moving wordlessly. Or maybe he’s speaking; her hearing is muffled, like her ears have been stuffed with cotton.

She’s drifting into the stars, and she can’t stop thinking about Cosette.

_Cosette._

Her daughter.

The Mayor stands up. Turns. Addresses the person standing at the doorway. Fantine can’t see anything more than a silhouette, but words break through the fog like they’re bursting above the surface of a pool.

“Just a few days – I must – ”

“ – can’t trust you – ”

“I _swear_ , I swear by the stars – ”

Fantine tries sleepily to turn her head; she recognises the other voice, and something about the situation seems off. Cosette is supposed to be there soon – the two men are arguing, and it doesn’t make sense. The room is white and blurry.

The Mayor turns, sharp, and brings his hands convulsively to his face. “I promised her, Javert,” he says, suddenly harsh, and Fantine can’t breathe.

Javert. _Javert_. She knows that name, knows the man – she can’t even think the word without reliving the moments of terror she’d felt, pressed into the dirt, a knee on her back pinning her down, the cold metal against her face as the officer had hissed into her ear, _You have the right –_

The right to exist, to make her own decisions, to work, to live, to eat, to see her daughter –

He’s going to take her away again, she realises, and feels strangely calm. There is no other conceivable explanation for why he would be there otherwise. The Mayor said he would protect her, but Javert is here, so evidently that wasn’t real; she can’t quite tell the difference. She’s still swimming deliriously in and out of fever.

Javert, she thinks, and feels the sense memory of cold metal on her neck, and a white-hot bolt of terror jolts through her, forcing her up. She thinks she cries out; she can’t hear anything over the roaring in her ears. The men both turn, different expressions on their faces that she can’t unravel at the moment, and then the room rushes over her and it all turns into white light and she’s floating, flying, in zero gravity.

 

PETIT-PICPUS STATION, 3029, COSETTE

Cosette is from a small, wooded planet to the left of the asteroid belt that wraps about the solar system she lives in; she barely remembers the planet in of itself, but she remembers the ship that docked at the loading station, the people who came and took her on board with them. She likes to think she can remember her mother’s face, but even when she squeezes her eyes shut as tightly as she can, all she feels is the light brush of a kiss on her forehead. All she sees is black, pricked with a thousand glittering stars.

She remembers the ship – the Thénardiers, Éponine, Azelma – and she remembers the man who had appeared to save her, how he’d seen her hiding behind a boiler and coaxed her out of hiding. And she remembers how, later, Mme. Thénardier had kicked violently at her for dropping a handful of bolts; how the man had stopped, reached into his pocket, and offered a bag of new ones. Bright, shiny; she’d never seen metal so bright before.

And she remembers the whispered words – “Cosette, your mother sent me” – and then, the feeling of his arms holding her to his chest, the two of them clinging to each other as the escape pod they’d stolen jettisoned wildly into the black expanse of space, spinning, falling –

Cosette _remembers_.

               

-

 

“Be careful going out today,” her father advises her over breakfast that morning – freeze-dried, nearly tasteless, the kind of cheap rations that people who don’t live on planets with viable atmospheres have to eat. “I’ve heard rumours that those vandals are in the area again, attacking ships. They got one of Gillenormand’s freighters yesterday, took the goods and vanished. Left the crew, of course. There’s something to say for their courtesy, I suppose.”

“Then I’ll be fine, Papa, this is neutral territory right by the border,” Cosette says, and doesn’t add _for now_. They both know the threat looms eternally in the background, the idea that someday this little patch of space will belong to someone instead of being just that – a patch of space in an infinite universe.

Her father frowns moodily at his breakfast. “Yes, but still I want you to be extra careful today. Go out, come straight back after you see the nebula, and don’t talk to anyone.”

“Papa, I’ve done this trip a million times. It’s fifteen minutes.”

“And I always worry.” Her father smiles and brushes the hair out of her eyes. “Take my ship, at least.”

“Papa – ”

“It’s newer, it’s cleaned up, and it’s armed. You shouldn’t need that, but I don’t want you to need them and not have them.”

Cosette gives in. “As long as I still get to go,” she says, taking her empty plate to the sink and setting it in the heater; she holds down the button for two, three seconds, and the crumbs are scorched into nothing. She takes the tongs, carefully lifts out the plate, sets it on the cooling rack.

Her father just says, “The ship is in the hangar.”

They’re still living in the old, repurposed space port, having converted one of the docks into a sealed-off building that serves as living quarters. Valjean fixes up old spacecraft; where better to live than a place expressly made for such a purpose?

The best mechanic in the galaxy, Cosette likes to say.

Half the construction has been boarded up to provide an anchoring hub for the extra ships. Most of them don’t work; Valjean takes them apart and sells them for parts, usually, or trades them in for more food. It’s a simple, self-fulfilling cycle, and Cosette doesn’t want it to change, ever.

She climbs into the ship, lowers the hatch, and buckles herself in. The ship hums to life, and she opens the hangar door, gripping the controls for a moment before she pushes the accelerator and shoots forwards, out into open space.

Cosette loves flying, loves the feeling of hanging suspended in the middle of the universe, surrounded by an infinity of stars and emptiness. She loves the control that comes with piloting a ship, loves feeling the craft respond to her touch. She loves space, pure and simple.

Valjean’s ship is bigger than hers, clumsier, newer. It’s a different model – Keiper 340, top of the class in space travel until the government bought their company and monopolised their capital – and requires a different kind of touch. Cosette takes a few barrel rolls about the station, sees her father in the hub window below, and laughs, heart soaring.

She never wants her life to change.

 

-

 

The nebula is beautiful.

It’s rose-coloured in most places, spiralling and twisting, almost like clouds and almost like smoke. The whole thing glitters and shines and Cosette levels out the tiny ship for a moment just to stare, breathless, at the colours.

She does this every morning, and she never tires of it.

That’s one of the things she knows she’d miss were she ever to stay trapped under an atmosphere: the cold beauty of the cosmos.

Cosette watches for what seems like forever and no time at all, then settles back into her seat and starts up the ship again. She’s about to turn, readying the thrusters, when she sees something out of the corner of her eye, a blurred silhouette reflecting off the polished metal of the ship, and she instinctively slams her hand down on the controls.

The ship rockets forwards, throwing her back against the seat; Cosette bites her own tongue and cries out, grabbing wildly at the controls to slow down the ship. She sucks in a breath and tastes blood.

“Ugh,” she whispers, pulling the glove off one hand and tenderly touching the tip of her tongue.

It’s another ship, she can see that much now, dull grey with tinted windows. _Government_ , she thinks, stomach suddenly flipping over, but doesn’t have time to panic – there’s a message coming through on her com.

She didn’t even know the thing _worked_.

Cosette takes a deep breath.

Her father is going to be _so_ furious, she thinks, and answers the call.

 

-

 

Four light years away, in the shadow of an uninhabitable gas planet, a ship folds up its outer wings and drops silently through space.

 

PF-G, 3029, MARIUS

Marius adjusts his tie carefully. His thumb is still stinging from where he’d pricked it earlier, and the white ruffles of the tie don’t quite cover up the tiny bead of blood that seeped into his stiff collar. He hates the formal attire, hates how uptight and upper-class it makes him feel, starched and pressed and smoothed out across an ironing board.

(He saw an ironing board, once, in a museum with his aunt holding firmly to his hand and steering him along towards the airships. Marius had wanted to stay and look at the books, the paintings, but his aunt had pushed her glasses up on her nose and dragged him away.)

“Marius!”

Marius starts guiltily, and pricks his finger again. Hissing under his breath, he shakes his hand wildly, and manages to smack his flailing arm into the model lamp that’s sitting on his bedside table. “Yes, aunt?” he calls back, shoving his finger into his mouth and sucking on it.

“Dinner’s ready, and Monsieur Tholomyès is here, so make sure you look proper! And brush that hair of yours, boy, you look like a tangle of wires.”

“Yes, aunt,” Marius replies obediently, and decides just to give up on his tie.

It’ll be another one of those dinners where he’s both shown off and humiliated – _Marius is working very hard_ , his aunt will say, and then in the same breath, _but he isn’t quite up to standard yet_ , and the guest will inevitably chuckle and look as uncomfortable as Marius feels.

He wants to get out.

He _needs_ to get out.

He walks down the stairs and takes his seat at the table.

Gillenormand is standing, shaking hands with a portly, balding man who must be the esteemed Monsieur Félix Tholomyès. Basque, passing by the table, gives Marius a friendly pat on the shoulder before he sets down a dish on the smooth, shiny wood.

“Earth-grown,” Gillenormand boasts, sitting down with a flourish. “Only the best, eh? These days it’s difficult to find anything decent, be it food or fun. It seems all one can find in the stores is packaged, dried cardboard – bah! This here, this is the real thing. It was grown on a nearby planet, one of mine. I’ve been having it cultivated for decades – it’s got enough local flora and fauna to feasibly support an ecosystem on its surface. And an atmosphere that’s not full of holes. Steady carbon levels too. Not that you’ll notice _that_ in your dinner! Your health, Monsieur.”

“And yours,” says Tholomyès, lifting his glass. He picks up his fork, gold like his cufflinks, and pokes unenthusiastically at a piece of meat.

Gillenormand returns the toast. “Enough about the meal, however,” he says, once they’ve all taken a drink. “Let us turn to business, Monsieur. About the location of your parking docks on the Fermeil Asteroid Belt – ”

Nicolette leans over to refill a glass, and squeezes Marius’s hand briefly, under the table so that no one else can see.

“Transportation should be relatively easy now that we’ve installed the new protocol for blasters,” Tholomyès is saying, sipping his wine. “Calculated to work at 0,000563 A.U.s per second, making them the most high-tech weaponry in the galaxy, and of course ideal for removing asteroids. We’ve been developing a similar sort of technology on a larger scale, hoping to upgrade to an entire A.U. At that speed, we could conceivably wipe out entire planets.”

“An ambitious yet admirable goal. Nicolette, my glass.” Gillenormand allows her to pour out more wine. “What sorts of prospective buyers for this new technology have you encountered? Have you been taking the necessary precautions? It seems to be a highly coveted ability – or at least in my opinion, I could see how it could be.”

“Rest assured that we have taken every measure necessary to secure our research so that it will not fall into the wrong hands,” says Tholomyès smoothly.

Marius carefully slices his meat into strips, then starts on the vegetables.

“Marius,” his aunt snaps, and Marius jumps, his fork clattering against his plate. “You’re not eating much. You’re wasting away – starting to look like a stick.”

“Yes, aunt,” Marius mumbles, ducking his head.

“And that hair! I thought I told you to brush it?”

“I did, aunt.”

His aunt sniffs. “You get more like your father every day,” she says. “I said at the time, when my sister ran off with that – that _pirate_ , that I wouldn’t let any boy I raised grow up that way. And sit up straight, you’ll give yourself a backache.”

Marius obediently straightens up and goes back to picking apart his food.

“Marius is a very smart boy,” Gillenormand says, lifting his eyebrows. “Studying interstellar law, he is.”

Tholomyès chuckles. “Oh? Maybe he could help with our project, what say you? A professional in interstellar law, that could be helpful, indeed.”

“Well, I wouldn’t call him a professional, he still has to finish his first year,” Gillenormand says, sounding almost peevish. “Although I heard from Blondeau – Henri Blondeau, the headmaster, old family friend – I heard from Blondeau that Marius has been doing _very_ well in classes for the first year. Hasn’t missed a day!”

“A model student indeed,” says Tholomyès, then addresses Marius: “And when is your year over?”

“Next week,” Marius gets out, keeping his eyes fixed on the slight wrinkle in the fabric of the tablecloth right by his full wineglass.

“Best of luck, then,” says Tholomyès, gesturing at Marius with his own glass. “A toast to finishing your first year in interstellar law. I studied law, did you know that, of course not, I haven’t mentioned it – I’m not _that_ well know, not really – I studied law, anyhow. Blondeau was in my class – now he’s the headmaster, fancy that, and I’m running the biggest tech company in the galaxy. Funny how things turn out, eh?”

“Sometimes,” says Gillenormand. “Speaking of tech – ”

They start talking again, and Marius can relax his shoulders somewhat. He pokes at his food, arranges the vegetables by colour, picks up and subsequently sets down his glass, and forces himself not to fidget, not to look up, not to speak.

 

 

PETIT-PICPUS STATION, 3029, COSETTE

“Cosette,” says Valjean.

She’s awake in an instant, sitting upright in bed. The glow-in-the-dark stars on her ceiling provide just enough light by which to make out the shadow of her father in the doorway, one hand on the door frame. “Papa?”

“Shh.” He crosses to the window – a curved sheet of plastic – and pushes aside her curtains. “I need you to get dressed, pack a change of clothes, anything else you need. A toothbrush, a jacket, that kind of thing.”

“Papa, what – ”

“I’ll explain when we’re safe, angel, please trust me on this,” Valjean says. His voice sounds strained. It’s then that she notices he’s wearing his greatcoat, the one that she thought had infinite pockets when she was younger. She hasn’t seen him wear that coat since –

The Thénardiers –

“Papa, is it the – ” But she can’t finish; the words stick in her throat.

“I’ll explain soon, just please – ”

Cosette scrambles out of bed and grabs her bag from the chair. She tugs open her dresser drawer and shoves clothes haphazardly into the bag. “Do we have to go?”

“Yes, angel.”

“Is it because of the nebula?”

“I’m sorry,” is all Valjean says; he takes a small pouch out of one of his many pockets and presses it into her hand. “I hope you won’t need this, but just in case. I’m going to go start the ship. Meet me out there when you get clothes, all right?”

“All right,” says Cosette. Her own voice sounds small to her ears.

“I love you, honey,” says Valjean, and then he’s gone.

Cosette slides the weapon into the pocket of her pyjama bottoms and straightens up. It’s been a while – years, really – since they’ve had to do this; she’s out of practice. She shoves her journal into the bag, adds a hat and an extra pair of socks, and grabs her music chip. She has no idea where they’re going, or how long they’ll be travelling.

She’d been towed by the government ship back to the nearest border patrol station, where she’d been thoroughly vetted: what was she, a young girl, doing all alone in a ship out by the nebula? Where was she from? Where was she going? What had her purpose been? Had she seen anyone else?

Cosette had answered the questions as best she could, aware of the alarm bells going off in her mind. When the officers had finally left her alone in the waiting room-cum-docking area, she sank into an overstuffed armchair and cried.

 _It’s not your fault_ , her father had comforted her, but Cosette still felt like it was.

After a moment of deliberation, she grabs the bag, pulls on her jacket, yanks on her boots, and hurries towards the hangar.

Valjean is waiting. “I have supplies to last us for a while,” he says, as she settles into the co-pilot’s seat and he types in the code to open the main hangar door. “I don’t have a set destination right now, angel, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Cosette whispers, pulling her knees in to her chest and hugging her legs tightly.

Valjean starts up the thrusters, and Cosette clings to herself even tighter as they take off from the dock. “After they let you come home yesterday, an officer came over here. Said he was a special detective, just checking in, making sure everything was all right, but something was off. He – reminded me of someone I once knew. A while ago. It didn’t feel normal.”

“Better safe than sorry,” Cosette points out. She’s used to the travelling, anyway, it’s just been a while since they had to pack up in the middle of the night.

“Exactly. I was looking at places to stay a couple parsecs away, but I think that might be too far for this old thing to go in light speed. We can stop when we get to the Kappa Belt. You’re on navi, baby.”

“Yay,” says Cosette, uncurling herself, feeling like one of the pillbugs she’s seen in documentaries of life on habitable planets. “I’ll do the special voice – turn right at the next star, my good sir,” she says, in her best impression of a government officer. “Ah, not this star, I meant the _other_ star.”

Valjean laughs. “My ship’s been boarded by pirates!”

“Arr,” says Cosette happily. She rests her legs on the dash, grinning when Valjean raises his eyebrows at her, and reaches for the map.

She remembers this, and it feels good.

 

-

 

Three point five light years away, a ship hovers in limbo. The sides are painted with reflective cloaking material, mirroring the stars. The engines are nearly silent. No one outside the ship would be able to detect the slightest signs of life.

Inside the ship, all hell is breaking loose.

 

 

PF-G, 3030, MARIUS

“Well,” says Basque. He straightens Marius’s tie, wincing ruefully when the sharp pin jabs him in the thumb. “It’s off to school for you, my boy.”

Marius nods. He can see his reflection in the polished wall behind Basque, and he almost doesn’t recognise himself; his face looks different, somehow.

The freckles, he thinks. Those are mine.

“Are you excited?” asks Nicolette eagerly. She brushes an invisible speck of dust off his shirt.

Marius shrugs.

“Well, _we’ll_ be excited for you,” she says, kissing him on the forehead. “I made you banana bread.”

“How did you find – ?”

“Oh, lovey, I have my ways.” Nicolette winks. “We hope you do good, of course. Stay out of trouble. Blondeau likes you, so don’t mess it up!”

“I’ll try,” says Marius, and even his voice sounds odd.

Nicolette brushes a stray curl behind his ear. “You look so much like your father,” she whispers, eyes darting instinctively towards the hidden camera concealed in the fake flowers on the welcoming desk by the door. “Very handsome. Very brave. You’ll do good, lovey.”

“Thanks,” Marius says. He wants to hug her, but he knows if he wrinkles his shirt he’ll pay for it later.

“Basque’ll walk you to the school,” Nicolette says, “and then it’s all you. I’m proud, duck.”

Marius nods.

“Well, off we go then, lad,” says Basque, gruff, and holds the door.

“You don’t need to do that,” Marius mumbles, feeling his face turn hot.

Basque chuckles. “My pleasure, lad, and also my job.”

The school is relatively close on the gridwork of the planet, and it feels like only an instant later that Basque is handing Marius his bag, opening the door, wishing him luck, and then –

And then he’s gone, and it’s just Marius, standing on the steps of the school.

_Col. G.P. UNIVERSITY._

Three weeks ago, while rummaging in one of the spare rooms for a suit jacket that wasn’t ridiculously too short in the wrists, Marius had stumbled across a plaque made of some tarnished old metal. He’d dusted it off and been able to read it – it was a medal of honour and valour, given to Colonel Georges Pontmercy, who bravely gave his life for his universe.

Marius never knew his father. The school he ought to be attending presently knows more about his father than he ever will. The name is forbidden in the house; what he knows, he’s learned in hushed whispers from Basque or Nicolette. The only time his parents are mentioned in a way that isn’t derogatory is when his aunt talks about her sister’s “great sacrifice” and how she “died for Marius’s sake” and how he’s “eternally ungrateful”: Marius never knew his mother, either.

He doesn’t know why he’s hesitating on the steps of the school.

“Oi, watch it!”

Marius turns, startled, just as someone crashes into him. His bag strap tears and textbooks go flying; his lunch bursts out of its containers and onto the pavement. Marius barely catches himself – his elbows scrape the ground, and he scrambles back to his feet, arms stinging.

His assailant is picking himself up too, dusting himself off furiously. “Where d’you think you’re going, huh?”

“I’m – sorry,” Marius stammers, “I was – distracted.”

“I noticed,” says the other, wryly. He’s short, much shorter than Marius, with a wild mop of unruly black hair and a lopsided grin. “Thinking of skipping school? Can’t blame you; the schools are all on the side of the government. I have a friend that would shank me for saying that. Well, if you’re gonna, go quick – I’ll be in trouble if I get caught, I missed most of last semester anyway, and they’re already out for my blood. Blondeau hates me, ha! That old ass.” The boy smiles brilliantly. “Don’t worry, I won’t rat.”

“I – all right,” says Marius, bewildered.

“Cheers,” says the boy, and offers him a salute and another crooked grin before he disappears behind the side of the building.

In the distance the late bell begins to ring, ten rhythmically electronic chimes.

 _Oh no_ , Marius thinks, heart sinking. Ten minutes late – that would be at least two marks against him already, and Blondeau is never in a good mood on the first day. _Oh no, oh no, what do I do?_

There’s really only one option: Marius scrabbles for his bag, shoves his lunch back into its container, and takes off towards the dock at a sprint.

  


 

LIBERTY, MUSAIN, 3030, GRANTAIRE

 _Countdown commencing_ , the electronic voice hums, and the screen flashes a counter, red and glowing.

_Five._

“Shit,” Enjolras swears, hands frantically flying over the buttons, “shit, shit, _shit_ – ”

_Four._

Grantaire slams his palm on the console. “It’s not working – the wires – ”

_Three._

“Fucking _fix_ it!” He yanks desperately at the controls, eyes wide and terrified, pleading.

_Two._

“I – I can’t – ”

_One._

Everything goes black, and Grantaire sits upright, gasping, tangled in the sheets.

His heart is pounding in his chest so wildly it takes him another moment to realise it’s not a continuation of the dream. He forces himself to breathe slowly, carefully, in through the nose and out through the mouth. In and out. _It’s a dream._ In and out. _It’s not real._ In and out.

“God damn it,” Grantaire whispers into the dark of his room. “God – _damn_ it.”

He wipes his face and his sleeve comes away soaked in sweat.

It’s nights like this that he wishes he could go back to drinking something stronger than the cooking sherry Musichetta keeps in the kitchen cabinets. It’s nights like this that he’s reminded why he doesn’t sleep. Sleeping isn’t worth the dreams.

There’s no way he’ll get back to sleep now. The clock on his dresser reads that he has three hours left before breakfast, three hours to waste in mindless activity where he doesn’t have to think.

The deck is deserted, the lights on the panels blinking faintly. Red, gold, green, blue – it’s like a string of electric fairy lights, he thinks, then scoffs at himself. It’s a set of control panels, nothing more.

Through the windows, the entire universe is waiting.

  


 

R-PLUMET, 2030, COSETTE

Cosette hasn’t set foot on land in a decade.

“It’s so weird to be able to breathe without having a mask to clear the air,” she comments, and something undecipherable flashes across Valjean’s face.

“Well, don’t get too used to it, I don’t know how long we’ll be staying here,” he says as he leads her inside the house. A house – she hasn’t been inside a house for as long as she can remember. “It’s going to be just us and the maid, Toussaint. Just temporarily.”

“I love it already,” says Cosette, who’s crouching on the ground to examine a dead leaf. It crunches when she touches it, like aluminium foil.

 

-

 

Later, she spends over an hour in the bathroom, marvelling at how the water flows from the tap. Toussaint, a stocky woman with bright red hair, eventually explains to her that she’s wasting water. It’s Toussaint who collects Cosette from the refrigerator, when Cosette stands there gaping at the food, and the window, which opens and lets air out – and also in, Cosette has to keep reminding herself, and she feels like she’s entered an entirely different life.

 

PF-G, 3019, MARIUS

Marius is from a planet so close to the sun it scorches his skin and leaves him covered in freckles that mirror the constellations above. There are eight moons, and he’ll learn much later that his father wrote a love letter comparing his mother’s eyes to the moonlight, lovely and silver and shining. His grandfather owns the planet (“People own planets now,” Enjolras will say, later, scathing as the sun itself) and he’s trying to own more, trying to buy up space as though he could clutch stardust in his fingers, lock away nebulae in a vault for safekeeping.

His grandfather refuses to talk about his father, but Marius overhears snatches of conversation when the adults think he’s not listening: the words “monopolisation” and “interstellar travel” and “space piracy” are used frequently, and for a child they sound like strange, foreign concepts, as distant as the stars his grandfather claims to own.

It’s his ninth birthday and he’s just learned that his father is dead.

“Wounded in battle; his ship was shot down. He survived, but was permanently injured. It’s been slowly killing him,” is the explanation given by his aunt, brusque and clipped, emotionless. “Find a suit and have Basque help you get ready, we’re going to the funeral.”

Marius has never been to a funeral. He doesn’t know what they’re usually like. The only people there are him and his aunt, and Basque, who’s carrying his aunt’s bag for her. Marius isn’t allowed to go near the coffin, isn’t allowed to touch the smooth, shiny wood, isn’t allowed to fidget; he sits uncomfortably in a cramped chair for half an hour until his aunt stands up, takes hold of his hand, and announces it’s over and they need to get home, they’ll miss dinner, and dinner is the only meal where they all eat together as a family, does he want to miss that?

There are flowers on the coffin, and a gilded plaque that Marius can’t read from this distance. The flowers are blue, he notices as his aunt pulls him along, to match the velvet on the tablecloths.

 

 

TOULON, PF SYSTEM, 3010, VALJEAN

Toulon is frozen solid, from the outer crust straight to the core of the planet itself.

It’s far enough from the sun that the ice only melts on a few days of the year, a week in the summer when heated bodysuits aren’t necessary for survival and the locks aren’t covered in icicles. Valjean wakes up each morning shivering, teeth chattering, ice frosted in his beard.

And each morning, without fail, he hears the rhythmic sound of boots on concrete, and then a thump on the bars of his cell that means it’s time to get up. He throws on another coat, hands shaking, and laces up his boots before his feet get frostbite.

It’s the kind of cold that goes right into his bones, crawls under his skin and settles in his veins, and _stays_.

The dining hall is heated, at least. They get thirty minutes to eat the first meal of the thirty-hour period that’s considered a day – the orbit of the planet is several times that length, but even the guards had recognised that men couldn’t stay awake that long. The twenty-four-hour standard cycle would be too much, of course.

Valjean clumsily shovels food into his mouth with the plastic spoon, his hands awkward and fumbling in the heated gloves; they don’t get forks or knives, or anything metal, except when they’re working out in the ice fields. He keeps his head down, avoids eye contact with the guards posted along the walls, with the other prisoners.

A murmur runs through the group as the door to the dining hall opens, and Valjean has to force himself not to look up. It’ll be one of the inspectors, there to make a show of dominance, ensure that the prisoners are all staying in line and sticking to regulations.

“Hey, 24601!”

He doesn’t respond.

“Hey, I’m talking to you – ” It’s Chenieldieu, one of the other prisoners. He drops into the seat next to Valjean. “24601 – ”

_My name is Jean Valjean._

“Hey – ”

Chenieldieu is right in his face, trying to get a reaction.

“You think you’re so tough, huh, you think you’re hot shit, think you’re stronger than the rest of us – ”

Valjean doesn’t respond.

“C’mon – ”

“24601,” a different voice says, and _then_ Valjean looks up.

Javert.

He’s standing next to the table, looking displeased. His hands are folded together, his black gloves and blue coat a sharp contrast from the ugly yellow bodysuits worn by the prisoners. His mouth is a thin line, every angle on his face carved with a knife, and he doesn’t look directly at either of them. “Stay out of trouble, 24601.”

Valjean snaps. “That’s not my name,” he snarls, gripping the plastic spoon in his fist so that he doesn’t punch something. “You know my name – Valjean. I’m Jean Valjean.”

“You are prisoner number 24601.” Javert’s face is impassive. It’s a running joke, that he doesn’t feel emotion, that instead of a heart he has a rulebook, that he prays to the law and swears with one hand on a textbook of protocol. “Stay out of trouble or you will be moved immediately and permanently to a solitary confinement. This will be your only warning.”

He stands there for another moment, then turns and walks to the side of the room to confer with the other guards.

Chenieldieu whistles. “You’re in some deep shit there, mate,” he says, almost admiringly, but he leaves Valjean alone after that.

Valjean tries, but he can’t bring himself to be grateful. The only thing he can make himself feel is the bitter, burning humiliation, and it shocks him to realise how much he wants some sort of revenge.

 

 

LIBERTY, MUSAIN, 3030, ENJOLRAS

“Fucking, fucking – _stabilisers_ – that isn’t working – god, our ship is a piece of – ”

“No shit,” Enjolras shouts over the roar of the engines. He slams his hand against the autopilot button; it’s still unresponsive, and he swears, spinning his chair about. “I’m _trying_ – ”

“Well, try harder,” Courfeyrac yells, tugging on the reverse lever. The ship groans as it swings about, narrowly missing collision with a massive asteroid that’s tumbling past them; Combeferre grabs for the navigation.

“I didn’t think it was _this_ bad – ”

“Explain later,” Enjolras says, breathless, and leans forwards, gripping the controls. Outside the ship is a riot of asteroids and debris, frozen chunks of ice and sharp bits of rock spinning wildly in all directions.

“ _Left!”_ Courfeyrac screams, wrenching the turn lever as hard as he can.

The asteroid collides with the ship, and impact sends them careering forwards into the mass of detritus, listing to one side. Enjolras scrambles for the view, heart in his throat.

“We just lost a rear thruster – ”

“That’s what she said,” shouts Courfeyrac, face pale and tense. “How many engines are working?”

“Two,” Combeferre confirms, “and we need three to fly. And JEHAN’s not responding – ”

“Well, we’ll have to make it on two.” Enjolras guns the engine, and the ship groans as it picks up speed.

Another flying chunk of rock smashes into the portside window, leaving a snowflake of cracks on the glass.

“Oh god, we’re going to die,” Courfeyrac moans. He’s still half out of his seat, fingers gripping the controls. “And we lost JEHAN – no, no, we can’t have lost JEHAN – I don’t – how big _is_ this asteroid belt?”

“Big enough,” says Combeferre. “Enjolras, what’s the damage to the ship?”

“Bad.” Enjolras veers to the right and drops the ship into a drunken spiral to avoid another asteroid. “The outside is freezing over already, and the engines still aren’t working properly.”

Courfeyrac slams his finger on the accelerator, over and over, cursing under his breath.

Nothing happens.

Enjolras doesn’t want to say they’ll die there, battered apart piece by piece, but the engines aren’t working and there’s ice on the edges of the windows and the ship has already been damaged. Critically, as per the flashing warnings on the main screen: _CRITICAL DAMAGE. CRITICAL DAMAGE. CRITICAL DAMAGE._

The noise is terrible, all scraping and screeching and the awful sounds of asteroids battering the outer hull of the ship, and Enjolras can’t let them die, not here and not now.

“I’m going to try shifting into hyperspeed,” he says.

“The drive is damaged – ”

“We’ll die otherwise!”

Combeferre grips his shoulder. “Let’s at least try,” he says, “we can’t lose anything at this point,” and sets his other hand on Courfeyrac’s arm.

Enjolras pulls the lever all the way until it lies flat against the control panel, and the world turns into a white blur.

  
  


 

PF-G, 3030, MARIUS

The screen on his wrist has been flashing _INCOMING CALL_ for over a minute now.

Marius does his best to ignore it.

The screen goes blank, then starts up again: _INCOMING CALL FROM L. GILLENORMAND. ANSWER?_

“No,” Marius says, and the screen goes blank again.

He’s sitting on a bench in the terminal of the dock, watching the ships. He doesn’t have enough money to rent one, much less buy one, and he knows somehow that he’s not going to be able to convince anyone to let him tag along for free.

_INCOMING CALL FROM L. GILLENORMAND. ANSWER?_

Marius hesitates, then says, “No.”

He didn’t go home the way he was supposed to after school – after skipping school, and he didn’t show up for dinner, and he didn’t answer when his aunt called and left him a serious of increasingly hysterical messages, culminating in a plea to contact her before her father did.

_INCOMING CALL FROM L. GILLENORMAND. ANSWER?_

“No,” says Marius.

Before he made it to the dock, he took off his identifying bracelet and left it hanging on a branch of the cryokinetic tree in the park. This, somehow, feels like the most rebellious act yet – he can’t be tracked digitally, now. He feels free and terrified and horribly alone.

_RECEIVED MESSAGE FROM L. GILLENORMAND. LISTEN?_

Marius hesitates. “Yes,” he says finally.

Gillenormand’s hologram appears on his wrist, his flickering form a picture of anger and disapproval. “I don’t know where you are,” he begins, “if you’re eloped with some harlot or run off to get yourself killed like your father, but I expect you to be remorseful as hell when you realise your mistake and return home. Do you have _any_ idea how your aunt and I feel? She’s been distraught, and the servants are going wild looking for you. I almost missed a meeting because of your antics. I hope you’re proud of yourself for this little adventure and all the trouble you’ve caused. You’re more like your father than I thought – he was a lying, scheming, manipulative little bastard, just like you. When you finally decide to wise up and come home, you’d better have a good explanation.”

The hologram vanishes.

_REPLAY?_

“No,” says Marius, and it sounds like a broken cry.

He can’t go back.

He curls up into a ball on the bench, hugging his knees, and tries to stifle his sobs. He doesn’t know exactly why he’s crying, but he can’t stop replaying his grandfather’s words – _he was a lying, scheming, manipulative little bastard, just like you_ – and he wants to scream.

Finally the tears stop, and Marius sits back up, wiping his face and sniffling. He doesn’t have anything with him apart from the remains of his lunch – a sandwich, an apple, and leftovers from last night’s potato soup – and his schoolbooks. Astrophysics, interstellar law, economics. They won’t be much help at all; it’s unlikely that he’ll be able to trade or sell them here.

“Hey, are you Marius Pontmercy?”

Marius looks up, startled, suspicious; it’s the curly-haired boy from the day before. “How do you know my name?”

“It’s on your bag,” the boy says, gesturing.

Oh.

“Maybe,” Marius says, snatching his bag and holding it to his chest. His eyes are probably still red, and he can feel his face grow hot at the idea of what the boy must be thinking of him, curled up on a bench at the docks sobbing like his heart is broken.

Marius doesn’t know if it _is_ – he doesn’t think he’s ever been heartbroken before. He thinks that’s something he’d recognise, when it happened.

If anything, he feels relieved.

“Okay, that’s me, why do you want to know,” he gets out, hoping he sounds at least somewhat tough.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Marius snaps, swiping furiously at his eyes. “What’s it to you?”

He almost flinches, on instinct, knowing it’s the kind of retort that would get him cuffed about the ears by his aunt, but the boy just laughs.

The boy’s name is Courfeyrac, and he’s not really a student, he explains. What he actually is, is a pilot, and he just happened to be stopping by to get his friend, who is – “Was, actually,” Courfeyrac says, laughing – a student.

Courfeyrac takes him out to lunch, and offers to pay for it, even when Marius says he doesn’t have to do that, really he doesn’t.

 

-

 

“I just need somewhere to stay for a while, and a way to get enough money to find a ship,” says Marius miserably, several hours later, once he’s explained the basis of his situation to Courfeyrac, who turns out to be an excellent listener. He didn’t think to bring any money – anything, really, apart from his useless schoolbooks and the remains of his lunch – so there’s no way he’ll be able to find a place that’ll give him a bed, a meal. A ship. A way off this planet.

Things aren’t free in this universe, and they don’t come easy.

“Hey,” says Courfeyrac. He touches Marius’s arm gently. “You can stay with me.”

Marius looks up.

“We have a ship – my friends and I. We just docked here after we got caught unexpectedly in an asteroid cluster and the ship was damaged. We could take you with us when we leave again – or just take you where you need to go – where _do_ you need to go?”

“I – ” Marius takes a deep breath in, lets it out slowly, presses his fingers to his temples. “I don’t know.”

Courfeyrac touches his arm again, softly. His fingers are gentle. “Marius,” he says. “Come with us.”

 

-

 

It turns out that Courfeyrac’s friends call themselves the ABC, and the ABC has a ship that is absolutely, totally, entirely _not_ stolen.

“Allegedly, we stole it from some rich guy who was cultivating extra cash and letting innocent people go without food and jobs,” says Courfeyrac, with a wink, as he leads Marius on board. “ _Allegedly_. They never proved anything conclusively.”

Marius nods, and feels that strange thrill of disobedience again. His grandfather would flay him if he knew, he thinks, and forces himself not to flinch involuntarily at the thought. He isn’t going to be afraid any more; he refuses to be afraid.

Courfeyrac introduces him to the crew. There’s Combeferre, an astrophysicist and pilot, who apparently helped turn the ship from valueless garbage into the high-tech machine it now is. Feuilly, who fixes the minutiae of errors, braiding wires back together and adjusting screws so small it hurts to look at them. Joly, resident med expert, who knows an intimidating amount of facts about black holes. Bossuet, also a former law student, who apparently covered for Marius and dealt with Blondeau’s wrath. Bahorel, who seems to be the muscle of the group. Enjolras, also a pilot, who doesn’t talk much.

“There’s also Musichetta – she’s the cook – and Grantaire, who’s probably sleeping,” says Courfeyrac wryly. “We haven’t been on a planet with an atmosphere in a while, it takes some time to get used to feeling gravity again.”

“I feel like I weigh twice as much,” says Bossuet sadly. “Makes me even more clumsy, you know?”

Enjolras, the intimidating, pretty one who’s been sitting sideways in the pilot’s seat, one leg draped casually over the armrest, now stands up and takes Marius’s hand. “Welcome aboard,” he says, with a charming, handsome smile, and Marius shakes his hand and feels dazzled by it all.

“I’ll show you your room – well, my room, technically, we’ll be sharing,” says Courfeyrac, leading Marius down a hallway that’s little more than a metal catwalk. “It’s okay, ‘cos I have an extra mattress.”

“Really, you don’t need to – ”

“No, no, I _want_ to. Ah. Here we are.” Courfeyrac ushers him into the room and waves a hand in a grandiose gesture that would be more fitting were he welcoming Marius to a palace instead of a small, cramped bedroom on a tiny ship. “Your new home.”

The room is ridiculously small, with only one tiny window that resembles an actual porthole, and the ceiling is sloped at an angle that causes Marius to bash his head against it when he tries to stand up properly. Rubbing his head, he looks about the room; Courfeyrac has put up a poster on the wall that looks like one of the government-sanctioned flyers that Marius remembers seeing all about his grandfather’s house, but this one has obviously been used for target practice. There are darts hanging off the pristine image of a viable world populated by blissful individuals.

“It was that or burn it, and Enjolras doesn’t allow open flame in a place with limited oxygen,” says Courfeyrac with a shrug, when he catches Marius looking, and Marius feels his face turn red.

He shuffles his feet awkwardly and looks about himself again, taking in the space. “It’s – you really don’t have to – ”

“Oh, stop it,” says Courfeyrac, but it sounds fond. He walks over to the tiny, smudgy window and peers out. “We’ll be taking off shortly – and by shortly, I mean – ah.” The ship lurches, and Marius stumbles. “By shortly I mean, right now.”

The engines roar to life, the entire ship shuddering as it lifts into the sky; Marius clutches the door and tries to get his balance back.

“Welcome aboard,” says Courfeyrac cheerily. He doesn’t even stagger. _That bastard_ , Marius thinks, and is shocked and affronted with himself.

 

-

 

Dinner that night is an energetic, high-spirited affair, with everyone talking and gesturing all at once. The remaining crew members have made their appearances, Musichetta – who turns out to be a quick-witted girl with lovely dark eyes – serving the food with a fond smile and an apron that says _baby you’re out of this world_ , and Grantaire deep in a conversation with Joly and Bossuet that seems to be about some kind of white-hot star, judging by the way he keeps saying “painfully hot.” Marius hasn’t studied much about the different types of stars, but he knows the basics, and things that are literally on fire certainly fall under such categories of temperature.

Then someone says a name he recognises, off-hand and casual, and Marius startles so badly he drops his water glass, liquid drops spilling into the low-gravity air. Courfeyrac catches one in his mouth and beams at him.

Marius turns. “What did you say?” he asks the speaker – Feuilly, the one with the talented hands and ginger hair and freckles to rival Marius’s own.

“Gillenormand,” Feuilly repeats, “you’ve heard of him, right? One of the rich bastards who think they can divide up the universe. It’s the universe, for god’s sake, you can’t lay claim to something like that. You can’t _own_ the universe. That’s incredibly naïve, not to mention ridiculously entitled and preposterous.”

“But – it’s – it’s not like that,” Marius stammers, feeling horribly wrong-footed, “it’s just – trying – to prevent people from fighting over who gets to go where – we have to have laws set in place, or else people will end up hurting each other and trying to take everything, we have to set _something_ as a borderline – we have to have limits – and as for laying claim to it,” he goes on, more confident, “that’s what people _do_! Think of the Earth, thousands of years ago, when people first lived there – they founded countries, built empires, created images – they made things better – the first Apollo space missions, the Iris launches, the Mercator elevator, the Saint-Père voyages – they got to explore the entire planet, and then they moved on to the rest of the universe! And it’s because of them that we’re able to be here today, how we could leave Earth, how we’re able to visit everything – travelling the stars, visiting any place in the universe, getting to see all this – what could be a better option?”

Combeferre says quietly, “Liberty.”

Marius opens his mouth, then closes it again. He can feel his face burning, and hopes he doesn’t look as flushed as he feels. He can’t think of what to say in response. He has the distinct feeling that he’s just been humiliated in front of everyone.

Combeferre raises his eyebrows and smiles faintly; someone’s fork scrapes a plate, the sound grating and awful in the silence.

“That’s the name of our ship, also, by the way,” Courfeyrac breaks in, when the awkwardness stretches on without an easily foreseeable end. “I personally wanted to name her _Élodie._ ”

“Yeah, but that was because you wanted to impress a girl,” says Bossuet.

“So? Like _you_ wouldn’t name the ship after your girlfriend if you could!”

“ _I_ would, but Musichetta is a much nicer name,” says Joly, who’s seated on Bossuet’s lap, his cane across his legs like a seatbelt.

“You’re just biased,” Courfeyrac sniffs, and the moment of tension passes.

 

-

 

Enjolras finds him later, once everyone has cleared the tables and gone to their chores. Marius hasn’t been given any assignments yet, so he hovers in the main room and hopes no one comes by. He isn’t hiding, exactly, but he doesn’t want to run into anyone.

It takes him a moment before he notices Enjolras leaning against the window, and then he jumps and stammers out something that he thinks might have been intended to be some sort of explanation for his general person.

“I was just – ah – I mean – ”

Enjolras disregards his babbling. “I don’t know why Courfeyrac invited you aboard, but I trust him, and I trust his judgement. You’re probably guessed by now that we’re not a normal freight ship.”

Marius has guessed nothing of the sort – he didn’t even think at all, not even remotely in regards to what sort of ship they might be – but he doesn’t say anything.

“We’ve been called a lot of things,” says Enjolras. “Radicals, pirates, revolutionaries. But really we’re just trying to do the right thing. There shouldn’t be a government in _space_ , especially not one that suppresses its people and denies them basic rights. Space isn’t some landmass to be bargained over – it’s the universe. The government is composed of rich, spoiled despots who think they’re entitled to a say in what the people want, when they don’t even listen to the people. We’re trying to give the people a voice.”

“I – don’t – ”

“It’s going to be a revolution,” Enjolras says quietly. He sets his hand on Marius’s shoulder and looks at him for a moment, and Marius squirms under the intensity of his gaze. “Welcome aboard, Marius.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to [Pilf,](http://pilferingapples.tumblr.com) [Mia,](http://mia-la-mia.tumblr.com) and [Alex!](http://lexiconallie.tumblr.com)
> 
> SPACE IS COOL. Did you know [there's a planet where it rains glass sideways??](http://www.space.com/22614-blue-alien-planet-glass-rain.html)

Mt. SAINT M., 3005, FANTINE

Fantine has never been above the atmosphere.

She suspects that’s why she falls in love with a pilot.

His name is Félix and he tells her stories, beautiful, breath-taking stories about glittering stars and brilliant nebulae and the cold emptiness of black holes. Later, Dahlia will tell her, “I think you were always more in love with the stars than you were in love with Félix,” and Fantine will have nothing good to say in response to that.

But the thing about loving someone who travels is that he’s always leaving. When he does show up, it’s without warning and without explanation, just arrives on her doorstep, leaning cockily against the frame and waiting for her to throw herself into his arms.

She does, of course. Every time. She doesn’t know which time will be the last.

Later, she lays her head on his chest and says, “Tell me about the stars again.”

When he finally does leave, at least he writes a note – he’s got a job, somewhere far away, light years from Mt. Saint M., something prestigious that will lead to good fortune. _Félix_ , she thinks, remembering when he told her the meaning of his name, and she crumples up the letter in her fist.

She cries, that night, but when she wakes up the next morning she can’t quite remember why.

 

 

 

LIBERTY, MUSAIN, 3030, MARIUS

The ABC functions like a well-oiled machine. They function better than _Liberty_ herself, Courfeyrac informs him with a wry smile that Marius is learning is his default expression. They have already worked out a system for who does what tasks, who’s on watch when, who’s flying the ship. Usually it’s Combeferre, who’s allegedly the best pilot, but occasionally someone like Bahorel will take a turn, which inevitably ends in a competition to see how many asteroids he can blast out of the air using the newly repaired weapons system, until Enjolras finds out and snaps at them for wasting ammunition.

And sometimes it’s the ship herself, or her autopilot, which Marius learns has been christened _JEHAN_. He panics the first time JEHAN speaks aloud, but no one else treats this like an uncommon occurrence, so Marius takes a deep breath and goes along with it.

JEHAN turns out to be wonderful, especially considering that JEHAN is little more than a sentient consciousness that sometimes controls _Liberty_.

He asks Courfeyrac: “So about JEHAN, does he – she – ”

“They,” says Courfeyrac. “Or just use their name. What about them?”

“Are they – ” Marius does know how to ask _are they a person_ , but Courfeyrac seems to catch on to what he wants to say.

“Oh! No, they’re just a consciousness, they never existed – in a corporeal way, I mean. They’re not the ship, _Liberty_ ’s different, JEHAN’s just the piloting system. But they like to do other things, too.”

Those other things turn out to be activities such as randomly turning off the heating system to experiment with the effects of matter and compression, causing everyone to huddle together for warmth until JEHAN notices and apologetically remedies the problem; speaking only in couplets for a solid week, which makes navigation slightly dangerous albeit interesting; and making up ludicrous dialogue to go along with the introductory videos that explain how to use _Liberty_ – Courfeyrac, Bossuet, Joly, Bahorel, and Grantaire keep the mute button on, and JEHAN supplies the voices.

It’s _fun_. Marius doesn’t notice when he falls into a pattern, but he wakes up one day, rolls out of bed, and heads towards the bridge to start his daily tasks, and realises – this is his life now.

He isn’t complaining.

Fun, he thinks, and the word sounds alien, even when he’s speaking to himself in his own head.

They’ve been travelling for just over a month based on the record Courfeyrac keeps on the wall of his room when Enjolras gathers them on the bridge and announces that they’ll be stopping at the next planet they reach for refuelling.

“We damaged a fuel tank when we were in the asteroid belt, and didn’t have enough time to repair it properly last time we docked,” he explains. “I’ll be taking Combeferre, Feuilly, Courfeyrac, and someone else.”

“I could go,” Grantaire offers; he’s been lounging in the pilot’s chair even though he’s not supposed to be, playing twenty questions with JEHAN and trying to act casual in a way that makes it obvious that he’s faking it.

Enjolras turns in surprise, eyebrows raised – he composes himself almost immediately, but Grantaire must see the shocked expression that flashes across his face, because his eyes turn bitter. “Or never mind. Just a suggestion, forget it.”

“I was thinking Marius – ” Enjolras starts.

“Doesn’t matter,” Grantaire says lightly. JEHAN hums sympathetically.

“I can go,” Marius says, and Courfeyrac closes his eyes and leans back against the railing dramatically.

Enjolras shrugs. “I don’t _care_ who goes,” he says, with a pointed look at Grantaire, but Grantaire isn’t paying attention to him any more.

Combeferre and Enjolras go to their shared room to change into more civilian-like clothes instead of the pilot suits they’ve been wearing, and Courfeyrac and Marius go to theirs. It feels strange, Marius thinks, buttoning his shirt, to dress in normal clothes again. Almost like he’s slipping on a second skin, a different one.

It feels almost as though he’s climbing back into the shell of the person he was on PF-G, and he isn’t sure if he likes the feeling.

“Do you think this shirt matches my eyes?” asks Courfeyrac, holding up a dark blue shirt and posing like a model, shoulders slanted and hip thrust forwards, one foot pointed directly at the door, head thrown back and mouth slightly open.

“No,” says Marius, laughing at the ridiculous affectations. “You’d have to wear black for that.”

“I could borrow something from your wardrobe, oh he-of-perpetual-mourning,” says Courfeyrac, pouting, and ends up selecting a white shirt that stands out against his olive skin.

R-Plumet is a primarily uninhabited planet, as per the research Combeferre has apparently done; they barely use their landing docks and ship ports, and an average of three ships come through that system every solar cycle, which is – Combeferre informs them – approximately three hundred and thirteen standard days.

The landing gear screeches horribly when they touch down, and Marius winces, clapping his hands over his ears to block out the noise and subsequently stumbling against the wall as the artificial gravity field powers down. His limbs feel suddenly much heavier than they’ve ever felt, and he wants to lie down and take a week-long nap.

Courfeyrac doesn’t even look fazed. It takes a lot to faze Courfeyrac. “All right, Pontmercy,” he says, linking his arm with Marius’s and leading him out onto the ramp, a solid and reliable presence with a guiding hand when Marius stumbles, unused to the gravity – “let’s kill it.”

“Don’t _actually_!” shouts Combeferre from behind them, “we need to maintain a good reputation and rapport with the locals – ” and Courfeyrac flashes a grin back over his shoulder in that easy, careless way he has.

Marius hasn’t yet settled into the group; he can’t laugh and joke with them the way Courfeyrac does, the way Joly and Bossuet do. Even Grantaire, who seems to be on a different rung of the metaphorical ladder, is participant in the casual camaraderie shared by the rest of the crew.

He doesn’t know how they do it, but he suspects it’s the ship.

 _Liberty_ is not, by any means, a high-tech vehicle compared to some of those which Marius has seen – or flown. She’s small, meant for carrying goods instead of ammunition, not made for speed. She can handle heavy hits, but she’s clearly not a warship.

But there’s something that ties them all together. Enjolras loves the ship, that much is brilliantly clear; the very way he speaks about her is in almost hushed tones, reverent, awed. He’s just as dazzled by the stars as any of the rest of them, and when he’s the one flying, Marius can nearly always tell – Enjolras has a certain type of _touch_.

They all take turns flying the ship, except Musichetta (who mostly works in the kitchen), Joly (whose cane means he can’t manoeuvre as well as would be needed), and Grantaire (who adamantly refuses to pilot anything).

And Marius.

He hasn’t been offered, and he doesn’t push; he figures they have reason not to trust him.

 _Liberty_ isn’t any ordinary ship, Enjolras had said, and Marius is beginning to realise that.

 

 

 

 

R-PLUMET, 3030, COSETTE

Cosette is preparing to leave for her weekly trip into town to buy supplies when Valjean stops her at the door.

“There’s a ship in town,” he says meaningfully. “You should wait until they leave to go out. It should only be a day, they’re just refuelling and trading some supplies for food. An old freighter, I heard, repurposed as a travelling ship. Bunch of student-age kids out looking for trouble – I want to be careful.”

“I’ll be fine,” says Cosette dismissively. They’re out of butter, a luxury she never had before but that she absolutely loves. And besides, she thinks almost resentfully, she can handle herself. She’s capable enough.

Valjean has been keeping a tighter fist on what he restricts her from doing since they had to leave Petit-Picpus, and while he hasn’t said anything about it, she’s noticed.

Cosette doesn’t like being restrained.

“I know, angel, but it’s better safe than sorry.”

They’re also out of bread, and Cosette wants to feed the fish that live in the tiny pond in the back yard of the house. And she wants to see the ship; she hasn’t been above the atmosphere since that first flight, almost a month ago. “Is this because of what happened at the nebula?”

“Cosette – ”

“Do you not trust me? You know I’m careful, Papa, I’m _always_ careful – you think it was my fault!”

Valjean sighs. “I don’t think it’s your fault, I’d just rather – Cosette, I don’t know what to do, I’m trying to protect you. I promised your mother I would keep you safe, and what happened at the nebula was my fault. I’d rather you be safe and angry with me than in the hands of the government, or at the mercy of some kind of pirate.”

“You think they’re pirates?” she asks quickly, trying not to sound too eager. Valjean had refused to tell her anything more about the possibility of pirates being the ones who had attacked Gillenormand’s freighters earlier and led to the increased security measures in the first place.

“I don’t know,” her father admits. “If you really want to go, you can, but I’ll go with you.”

Cosette throws her arms about his neck happily. “Thank you, Papa – ”

“Don’t thank me, you make me feel like I’ve let you win,” her father grumbles, but he pats her hair affectionately, and she knows it’s all right for the moment. “And you’ll wear your cloak that has a hood, and bring the blaster I gave you back at Petit-Picpus, in case we do end up running into trouble.”

“I will,” Cosette promises, heart singing.

“All right, then,” he says, gruff. “Go get ready.”

Cosette scrambles to get a basket. She throws on her hood, braids her hair, and tugs on her boots as she runs back towards the door, almost tripping over her own feet; her heart is pounding wildly in her chest with excitement and anticipation. She tucks the weapon into the inner pocket of her cloak, and waits eagerly for Valjean to finish putting on his coat.

It’s cold outside, and a light dusting of frost has covered the ground. Their boots crunch as they walk across the grassy road, and Cosette’s breath forms a little cloud in the air. They had to cover the flowers a couple of nights ago, so they wouldn’t freeze; Cosette hadn’t thought of that, and had been distraught when Toussaint had told her that most would die. It always seems to feel like there’s so much she still doesn’t know about living on an actual planet.

She almost gasps when she sees the ship – it’s beautiful, glittering and dark, surrounded by a faint shimmer that means it’s equipped with cloaking technology.

The ship is small but solid, and appears to be pieced together of material from various models. Cosette has lived with dozens of old ships, has watched and helped her father build new ones from haphazard remnants of old wrecks or discontinued models, but she’s never seen one so obviously cared for. Whoever built – and subsequently fixed – this ship must have spent ages working on the details.

There is, however, a massive dent in the starboard side of the hull, the metal around the damage cracked and already rusting. Cosette’s fingers itch with the desire to scrub the metal with vinegar or something until it’s rust-free and shiny again.

It’s an old freighter, her mind supplies, a type that was discontinued fairly recently. This means that it’s most likely not a government ship – the very thought makes her heart jump back into her throat. If it’s not a government ship, she might be able to convince her father to let her talk to the pilots.

Actual, real pilots – Cosette can scarcely imagine what that life must be like.

It’s her _ideal_.

The people have gathered by the lowered ramp, and an eager buzz of chatter rises from the crowd. Evidently such an occurrence isn’t a common one, Cosette thinks, and tugs her hood down farther to cover her face. It should seem as though concealing her true identity would be more suspicion-inducing than just mingling with the crowd, but this way means she gets to see the ship and watch the people, so there’s no way she’s going to complain or argue.

She can’t make out individual words, but she can see people standing on the ramp, wearing the distinctive pilot’s outfit. They look barely older than she is.

Valjean puts his arm around her and gently but forcefully guides her away from the crush of people.

 

 

 

 

Mt. SAINT M., 3012, FANTINE

Cosette is the most beautiful thing in the universe, Fantine thinks, watching her daughter as Cosette blithely shreds leaves into pieces and adds them to the pile of sticks and grass she’s been building for the past half hour. The stars have left a hollow, visceral ache in Fantine’s chest, but Cosette is a balm that soothes her.

“She’s adorable,” says Mme Thénardier, who’s sitting next to Fantine on the bench in the park. Her own two daughters are sitting next to Cosette, poking sticks into the dirt to build a miniature fortress for whatever imaginary population they’ve created. “She gets along well with Ponine and Zelma.”

“Thank you. I’m glad to have her,” says Fantine. And she is; Cosette can’t take away the permanent pain in her back and shoulders from heavy work, or the dry, cracked skin on her hands, or the way her feet always ache, even after she soaks them in lukewarm water for as long as she dares. “Yours are beautiful too. I love their names.”

“I was going to name the eldest Palmyre,” sighs Mme Thénardier, “after a place I read about in a history book one time – but instead she’s Éponine.” Éponine, the older of Mme Thénardier’s two girls, with hair as rich a russet as her mother’s looks up briefly at the sound of her name.

“Éponine is a beautiful name,” says Fantine. Her own voice sounds superficial and meaningless, like she’s speaking through a tunnel of emptiness; she’s starting to get a headache again. She’ll have to lie down when they get home, but that would leave the chores to Cosette, and no five-year-old should have to make dinner, no matter how capable she is. Fantine is constantly afraid that she’ll burn herself.

Mme Thénardier hums thoughtfully to herself. “My husband and I would love to take care of her,” she says, “if you’re willing to let us, of course. The price that you mentioned is more than enough, dear. She’s a lovely child, I would do it for free.”

“Oh, no, I can’t let you do that,” says Fantine, alarmed. “I can pay.”

“Well, if you insist . . .”

“I do. And it will be good for her, to see the stars. I always wanted to travel the galaxy,” Fantine admits. Her chest feels tight; she’s never really gotten her strength back after Cosette was born. “I never got to, but I know she would love it.”

Mme Thénardier presses Fantine’s hand warmly. “Of course,” she says. “I understand. We mothers only want the best for our children. We’ll treat her like one of our own, dear, I promise.”

“Thank you,” says Fantine, relieved. “And I’ll visit her, of course.” She can’t imagine a world in which she doesn’t get to see Cosette. “She’s all I have, and I love her dearly. Her – her father is – he’s dead.”

“I’m sorry,” says Mme Thénardier gently. “I know it must be difficult.”

“It’s all right,” says Fantine. Cosette stops playing for a moment and runs over, burying her face in Fantine’s skirt; Fantine holds her close and closes her eyes briefly, stroking her hand over Cosette’s hair.

She’s been working down at the docks, loading and unloading the freighters that come through Mt. Saint M.’s hubs, and making barely enough money for her and Cosette to survive. Cosette needed new shoes recently, and they went without food for almost two days to pay for that.

Cosette doesn’t complain. She listens to what Fantine says, she takes care of herself, she watches the ships take off and land with her wide, blue eyes. She’s perfect, and Fantine can’t bear to see her go.

It’ll be temporary, she reminds herself, swallowing down the cry of loss that rises in her throat, and holds Cosette tighter for a moment.

Cosette is too young to understand fully, but she follows Éponine and Azelma onto the ship, letting Fantine hug her one last time. Mme Thénardier embraces Fantine and promises to visit soon, to send weekly updates on Cosette, to ensure her safety and care as long as Fantine pays her regularly.

And Fantine bites back the urge to run and grab Cosette, to snatch her away and hold her, to keep her in her arms and never let her go.

 _This is the right thing to do_ , she tells herself – and then she’s confused, because no, it’s the _only_ thing to do.

She hasn’t had a proper meal in weeks; that’s probably why everything feels tilted.

“All right, it’s all right, then,” she says, and doesn’t know why she’s saying it; probably she’s repeating herself, or maybe she only imagined saying her consent. The ship has left already, it’s out of sight, and there’s no one left to hear her speak.

 

 

 

 

Mt. SAINT M., 3005, VALJEAN

From an outsider’s point of view, they could be some sort of mirror – one, in ragged prison garb, beard unkempt, skin bruised and blistered, frostbitten fingers shaking slightly, hands clasped and handcuffed; the other, in neat and trim uniform, hat on head, chin firm and steady, hands folded calmly across the breast of the suit. The sharp, visceral dichotomy between criminal and law.

Javert doesn’t move, but Valjean is dragged to the desk; his knees buckle, and the guards supporting him yank him back to his feet roughly, faces like stone.

“Prisoner number 24601,” the judge booms; the prisoner doesn’t react any more than a slight shiver, like a horse reacting to a fly that’s landed on its flank. “You have been charged with and found guilty of attempted escape from the penal planet Toulon. Your alleged escape attempt involved overpowering your guards and assailing a ship, which you then tried to fly off the planet. Do you contest any of these charges?”

Valjean doesn’t look up. “No,” he says, his voice hoarse; it scrapes from his throat.

The judge hems and looks down at his notes. “You have previously been noted for your exceptional behaviour while serving your jail time. Your release date was marked for the beginning of next year. Is there any particular rationalisation you have as to why you would attempt something so irrational?”

“No,” he repeats. He’s used to the word, used to the heavy feel of it on his tongue. It’s comforting, almost, to know that he’s denying them something, no matter how small.

“You realise that the penalty for attempted escape is an additional five years augmented on to your previously existing time.”

Valjean doesn’t move or speak.

Javert steps forwards, inclining his head slightly. “The prisoner will be informed of any additional necessary changes to his sentence. Your Honour.”

“Thank you, Inspector.” The judge coughs, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “Prisoner 24601, you will be placed under strict surveillance for the first month of your new sentence, effective immediately. At the end of that month, if you have proven yourself to be capable of behaving, the surveillance will return to the way it was before your attempted escape. Do you have any other questions?”

“No.” His mouth tastes like salt and rust. Like ice.

“Then this concludes the session.” The judge bangs his gavel against the desk, and the guards stand up in unison. Javert turns on his heel and walks briskly towards the door, his posture impeccable and uniform crisp and neat.

One of the guards pushes Valjean’s back. “Come on,” he mutters, shuffling his feet, and Valjean allows the guards to lead him away again.

 

 

 

 

TABERNA, FERMEIL SYSTEM, 3030, ÉPONINE

If there’s one thing Éponine regrets, it’s ever leaving solid ground in the first place.

The stars are dazzling, wide open and infinite and eternal, and there’s _so much_ of them, so many possibilities; she can’t help but feel horribly small, in the face of all that grandeur. She can’t help but feel terribly insignificant, useless, worthless, when held up against the majesty of _space_.

Besides, she’s terrified of being smothered, choking in an airless, freezing void.

Sometimes, at night when she can’t sleep, she wraps her blanket about her shoulders and creeps to the window, sitting on the floor of the ship and hugging her knees to her chest. She wants to go home, but there isn’t a home to which to return – she doesn’t have a planet, not that she can remember.

She thinks about that, when she’s cleaning the ship or fixing the wiring or flying for hours, when she starts to get dizzy from lack of food or sleep: _did_ she have a planet? She can’t remember anything before her life on Taberna.

She hasn’t set foot on the ground in over a decade.

 

 

 

 

R-PLUMET, 3030, MARIUS

It’s _cold_.

Marius is used to a planet that’s much closer to the sun, and he’s shivering by the time he and Courfeyrac make it into town. R-Plumet isn’t _far_ from their star, not exactly, but they’re in more of a wide, lazy orbit, whereas PF-G spins in a tight and rapid loop.

He’s not sure when he stopped thinking of PF-G as _home_.

“We’re getting water,” says Courfeyrac, craning his neck to see through the press of locals; the entire town seems to have come out to see the ship, and the square is packed. The shops lining the street are mostly deserted, every potential customer having been lured away by the promise of _Liberty_.

The water-seller is an elderly man who makes idle conversation with Marius while Courfeyrac tries to figure out how much to buy. Courfeyrac arranges to have the water sent to the ship, and, once the deal is closed, turns to Marius with a bright smile.

“We’ve got a while,” he says. “Let’s see the town.”

R-Plumet is home to a bursting ecosystem, all carefully cultivated. It’s tempting to relax into the easy homeostasis of the sub-atmospheric world, to pretend mentally that the plants and animals are all native and not perspicaciously selected, one by one, by highly trained government officials. Marius, who grew up learning such things, can recognise the tell-tale signs – the arrangement of the buildings, the way the streets are laid out, the types of birds that perch on the branches of the carefully trimmed boxwoods.

The whole planet is little more than an experimental petri dish.

Even so, it’s gorgeous, and Marius spends a dazzled, almost awed moment of staring open-mouthed at the architecture on what a plaque out front declares to be the office of interplanetary relations.

Courfeyrac lets him stare, amused, and keeps up a friendly stream of commentary with Bossuet and Grantaire, who’ve deigned to accompany them.

It’s been a month since Marius has seen a _building._

He’s so boggled that he doesn’t notice where he’s going, and before he has the chance to look down and notice where his feet have led him, he’s crashed headlong into a slight, hooded figure, and stumbles against Courfeyrac and Bossuet, sending them all staggering back into the wall behind them; Bossuet, ever-clumsy, trips and scrapes his hand against the manufactured stone, and yelps.

Marius doesn’t stop staring – it’s just different now.

The person he’s so suddenly bumped into scrambles up, fixing the hood on the cloak, but not before Marius catches a glimpse of long, brown hair and bright blue eyes. Before he can say anything – an apology, an explanation, a query – she’s hurrying away, hood pulled down over his face, and has vanished into the crowd.

“Hey, get up,” says Courfeyrac, tugging Marius’s arm, and Grantaire, brushing himself off, scoffs.

“What, haven’t you ever seen a girl before? Or do they keep you so sheltered and brainwashed in your government-sanctioned planetary systems that you never catch a glimpse of the fairer sex? Manipulative, concealing, scheming as they were – the government, I mean, not girls, although in my experience I have seen some of both – not to become a parody of myself when I speak of _both_ – ”

“Careful, you’re starting to sound like Enjolras, except for the jokes,” says Courfeyrac, helping Marius to his feet. “You all right, Pontmercy? Watch where you’re going next time, yeah?”

“I’m – all right,” says Marius, permitting Courfeyrac to brush the dirt off his clothes while Marius himself is still staring into the crowd. He cranes his neck, hoping to be able to pick out the elusive girl, but there’s no sight of her to be had.

Courfeyrac slings an arm about his shoulders and guides him along their way; Bossuet and Grantaire follow, Bossuet complaining vociferously about his scraped-up hands and now-dirty clothing.

 

 

 

FAVEROLLES, 3001, VALJEAN

Valjean lives with his sister and her children in a sanctioned part of the main shipping hub at the mainly deserted forest planet of Faverolles, within arm’s reach of the stars.

The stars have never seemed so far away.

 

-

 

His hands are shaking when he grips the controls. The ship is a freighter, loaded heavy with its cargo, and it manoeuvres slowly.

The government ship locks him in traction, pulls him in.

 

 

 

 

R-PLUMET, 3030, COSETTE

Toussaint tells her stories each night, stories of the original crews that searched the heavens looking for some other sign of life, back when humanity was purely terrestrial and just taking its first, hesitant, wobbly steps out into the wild wide expanses of the universe. She tells Cosette about _Curiosity_ , about _Discovery_ , about _Vivacity_ , about the longing carried along with those early explorations of the cosmos, the yearning to visit, to seek, to find. She tells Cosette about the search for other intelligent life, the pushback, the meditative days of space exploration when it seemed like the Earth could still feasibly contain human life for just a while longer, and she tells Cosette about the days when humanity collectively realised that there would soon be no place for them to remain upon the original planet, their first home.

“So we went to the stars,” says Toussaint, her voice a low murmur, and for someone who expresses clear distaste at the idea of venturing above the atmosphere she’s got a reverent note in her tone.

It’s this that Cosette is thinking about when she slips back to Valjean’s side, the glittering black of the ship just barely in her peripheral vision. _Star-struck_ , she thinks, _what an appropriate word_.

Valjean has several loaves of bread in the basket he’s carrying, which he then hands to her, and Cosette wraps her arms about them and breathes in the smell of freshly baked bread.

She wants to go. She wants to stay.

She wants both, and she knows she can’t have it.

Valjean finishes settling the prices with the vendor and turns back to her, brow furrowed. “I know you want to see the ship,” he begins.

Cosette looks up eagerly. “Yes – ”

“But you have to be _careful_ , and I don’t want you speaking to any of them. I don’t care who they are, I don’t want them to know who you are. You can never tell who’s a spy and who would blab every single damn word to those who want people like us out of the picture. But we can go look.”

 _People like us_ is a phrase Valjean uses often, but one that Cosette doesn’t fully understand. People like us – people who don’t live on planets? People who pilot ships? People who want to see the stars?

There’s a blond-haired boy standing on the ramp of the ship, explaining something to do with the type of fuel the ship needs. It was originally a freighter, Cosette can tell that much from the serial number – or rather, where the serial number _should_ be, because it’s been scraped away at with something sharp and corrosive. The first three digits are _F-A3_ . . . and that’s all she can read.

F for freighter. No one ever said it wasn’t transparent.

The corrosion could be a problem, though, and her fingers itch to clean it up. They could be flying through space and end up with a busted hull, if they don’t deal with the corrosion before it gets too acidic and eats through the metal outside of the ship.

But they’re pilots and mechanics, she reminds herself, so they probably know this.

What kind of pilots and mechanics don’t take care of their own ship?

The boy who’s been delineating their fuel needs finishes explaining, and a couple other people – pilots, all pilots, although one is walking with a cane and seems more to be helping explain instructions on what to do than actually trying to start to work – begin loading up the ship and filling the fuel tanks.

“We’re still missing a couple people – Marius, Courfeyrac,” says one of the pilots, and the blond boy frowns.

“And Grantaire. They went into town to buy food, I think. They should be back soon.” He voice is low, but it carries easily through the crowd.

“Well, I mean obviously, we can’t leave without them, seeing as the last time we left Courfeyrac on an inhabited planet he kidnapped the grandson of one of the foremost political figures in the galaxy.”

“Marius claims to have come with us of his own volition, Combeferre,” one of the others shouts, looking up from where they’re now closing the smaller hatches and making sure the landing gear is clear to be tucked away back in the underbelly of the ship.

Cosette is doing her best to pretend she isn’t listening, but the only person paying attention to her is her father, who’s also watching the crew prepare the ship with an almost hungry longing in the expression he wears on his face.

 

 

 

 

R-PLUMET, 3030, MARIUS

They’re just missing Bahorel, and Enjolras is pacing back and forth, every so often stopping to shove his hands furiously into his hair and hiss something under his breath. He and Combeferre have been conferring in low voices for the past several minutes, shooting worried, furtive glances towards the still-open ramp, tense, waiting.

They know something that they haven’t told everyone, and it’s making Marius terribly antsy. His skin has started to itch horribly from pure anxiety.

Joly’s sitting off to the side on Bossuet’s lap, the two of them playing a game of cards or dominoes or something with JEHAN; Feuilly is twisting together the wires on a circuit board, back and forth – they’re already frayed apart a while ago, but he keeps going; Musichetta has even come out of the dining hall and is slouched on the floor next to Grantaire, who’s alternating between glaring out the windows and glaring at Enjolras.

Courfeyrac hasn’t been able to sit still at all for longer than a minute at one time, and has therefore taken to circling the bridge, occasionally pausing for a moment to sit down on the stairs next to Marius, bouncing his leg and chewing on his lip.

An eternity of agonising emptiness goes by, the only sounds the tapping of shoes on metal and the occasional offhand murmur from JEHAN or one of the others or the clicking noise of Musichetta’s bright green-painted nails against the railing of the stairs, and then – then, finally – there’s a clatter outside and Bahorel’s voice, “Let me in, god damn it, let me _in_.”

Enjolras bolts upright, tense. “Bahorel – ”

“Baz, where the hell were you,” Courfeyrac yells, shooting up onto his feet, “we were supposed to leave half an hour ago – ”

“Got stuck in traffic, sorry guys – speaking of – government ships, at least three of them, couldn’t quite see how many. We gotta _go_.”

Enjolras spins about and starts working on the controls, fingers flying. “Which direction?”

“God, I don’t know. Everywhere,” says Bahorel, collapsing into the only empty pilot’s seat, the one not taken by Enjolras or Joly. “Uh – seventy-three, twenty-four, ninety-one. As far as I can guess.”

“Are we good to take off?”

“ _We’re clear_ ,” says JEHAN, and Combeferre slides into the space between Enjolras and the dash. “ _Ships are at seventy-eight, twenty-one, and eighty-seven_.”

Bahorel grins sheepishly. “Ah, I was close. They probably switched positions too.”

Marius’s heart is in his throat and he doesn’t know what to do. He can’t stop imagining that his grandfather is on one of those ships, ready to storm out on the ramp and yell at him, and Marius wants to think that he’d turn his back and follow his friends – his _friends_ – but he can’t shake the part of him that longs to slink away, tail between his legs, head hanging, cringing and flinching away from imagined blows.

The ship lurches, the dull roar of the engines starting to kick in, then the silencer falls and everything goes muffled for a moment before the artificial gravity field adjusts. Marius stumbles, hands flung out blindly to catch himself before he falls off the railing or something equally embarrassing, and his flailing fingers snag in Courfeyrac’s shirt.

Courfeyrac wraps one hand about Marius’s wrists and pulls him up to the navigation panel.

Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac usually fly together when they have the opportunity, with Enjolras on steering, Combeferre on navigation, and Courfeyrac on speed. Enjolras leads, Combeferre guides, and Courfeyrac stands between them and keeps his hand on the accelerator.

Marius knows he’s out of place, but Courfeyrac doesn’t let go of his wrist, so he sets his hands cautiously on the controls. Courfeyrac puts his hands over Marius’s, helping him.

Then suddenly they’re in the air, and Marius can’t see anything but a white blur as the engines shake the tiny craft. Outside the windows, R-Plumet is a dizzying, whirling blur, and Marius’s stomach lurches unpleasantly; his teeth are clamped tightly together to prevent him from biting off his own tongue.

The whole ship is shaking like it’s going to fly apart instead of up, but Enjolras – who’s leaning forwards, perfectly balanced, eyes narrowed in concentration as he looks into the scope – doesn’t seem worried. Marius can’t see the sensors that show them where the government ships are; for all he knows they could be everywhere.

“ _Leaving atmosphere in twenty kilometres,_ ” warns JEHAN.

Courfeyrac tightens his grip on Marius’s hands and pushes forwards the level which controls the pressure on the accelerator.

“ _Ten kilometres_.”

Marius wants to close his eyes, but he can’t; he feels frozen, locked in place, shaking like a leaf in the storm. He can’t tear his eyes away from the screen, even though all he can see is a shuddering white blur as the ship increases speed.

“ _Five kilometres_ – ”

“Shift!” yells Combeferre, and Enjolras slams his hand down on the controls, face a perfect mask of fierce determination.

He looks like a supernova, bright and golden and glowing, eyes alight with fire, cheeks flushed, hair dishevelled from the movement and alterations of gravity. He looks like something terrifyingly otherworldly.

Marius almost shrinks away, but Courfeyrac is still standing behind him, and there’s nowhere else for any of them to go.

“ _Commencing hyperspeed_ ,” confirms JEHAN, and there’s a high-pitched whine – almost like a mosquito, Marius thinks groggily, head whirling, like some sort of electric insect – and then everything shifts and jumps to the side, messy and _wrong_ , and he loses consciousness.

 

 

 

 

TABERNA, 3028, ÉPONINE

Azelma wakes her up by jumping onto her sleeping bag and shaking her until Éponine’s flailing her arms furiously, smacking Azelma by accident and making her shriek. Azelma scrambles off her, and Éponine rolls over, pulling her pillow over her face and groaning.

“Get up,” Azelma complains, “we have to get ready, and Gav is supposed to show up either today or next week, he wasn’t clear – I don’t want to do _all_ the chores, Ponpon, come _on_.”

“Go away,” Éponine tries to say, but it comes out more like _goaaaurgh._

“’Ponine – ”

“I’m getting up, fine, I’m getting up, get _off_ me.”

Morning chores are one of her least favourite parts of the day: cleaning the ship, organising the goods, making sure no one’s stolen anything, figuring out their position based on the superannuated old navigation system.

Breakfast, if they’re lucky. God, they need to install running water on the ship; she hasn’t showered in what feels like forever. Not since the electrical washrooms stopped working.

They just need a new ship, really, but she knows how likely _that_ is.

And so chores it is. Their parents haven’t woken up yet, presumably, based on the lack of screaming and broken items.

There are eight messages on the coms, six of which are from Montparnasse. Éponine deletes them without reading them.

The other two she keeps, for posterity – one is from the government, the annual plea to register ships. They’ve never registered theirs, and therefore there’s no consistent way for them to be tracked down. It’s efficient, really.

And the other is from an unknown origin: a single colon, and right parenthesis.

Gavroche, she thinks, and her heart lifts slightly.

She hasn’t seen her brother in months – he’s still presumably roaming the galaxy in the ridiculously tiny pod he somehow found, drifting from star system to star system, planetary, transient. He shows up every few months or so, stays for a while, and then without warning he’s off again, gone without any record of his departure.

It’s been this way for as long as Éponine can make herself remember; she doesn’t think she can recall the precise date when her parents decided that supporting two children was more than enough work. Ten years ago, at least, when her brother was only a small child.

Gavroche bears the burden well, considering all things – he’s a cheerful little wanderer, content to voyage from one star to the next, stopping by every so often to check in.

Sometimes Éponine thinks about asking if she can go with him, ask him to drop her off at the nearest planet and see what came of it, but she can’t leave Azelma and there’s no way her sister would leave. And she wouldn’t put it past her parents to try to track her down. So she wants to leave, she wants to go, but –

She doesn’t.

Instead, she finishes the chores. She checks the navigation. She cleans up after her parents and presumably Patron-Minette, throwing away trash and wiping down the controls. She makes sure they’re still on some sort of vague course.

The stars are all about her, every place she looks – cold, glittering, sharp and mocking.

She wants to scream at them, at the universe in general.

She doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr.](http://mochi-jupe-jaune.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW I MEANT TO UPDATE THIS WAY SOONER. Life and politics and studying got away with me.

LIBERTY, MUSAIN, 3031, MARIUS

 

Courfeyrac pauses in front of Marius on their way out to the kitchen for breakfast, frowning. He runs a hand through Marius’s hair and says, “Your hair’s getting long, we should cut it soon.”

Marius doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just nods; his relationship with Courfeyrac is primarily composed of little gestures, minute touches, meanings conveyed in glances and raised eyebrows and small smiles. They haven’t sat down and had in-depth conversations about their lives, but Marius still feels as though Courfeyrac is the one person who knows him the best in the entire universe.

And so Courfeyrac finds wire cutters that works as scissors and cuts Marius’s hair that afternoon, in the eerie bluish light of an enormous star that Combeferre with his encyclopaedic knowledge informs him is called Kepler-b763. Courfeyrac’s fingers are gentle, combing through Marius’s curls, his breath light as the snips of hair on the back of Marius’s neck. It’s strangely intimate, wordless and heavy, and when Courfeyrac finally sits back and brushes them both off, Marius has a tight throat and watery eyes.

He doesn’t know why he suddenly feels so close to tears.

Nobody’s touched him, casual or otherwise, this way for as long as he can remember. Courfeyrac is careful, but each brush of his fingertips on Marius’s skin makes him shiver, almost flinching.

Courfeyrac lifts a missed few strands of hair off his shoulder. “All right, Pontmercy,” he says, voice soft, “we’ve got to get to the bridge, Enjolras wants us all there for a meeting.”

The meeting turns out to be more of an announcement; Enjolras stands on the bridge like a mascot, like a figurehead – Marius has seen pictures of figureheads, back when _ship_ meant something that sailed on the oceans of that long-ago first planet; wooden statues with painted-on faces and bright, colourful decals – and speaks to the rest of them, gathered below.

“We’re changing the plan,” he says, quiet but fierce, his voice carrying. “The government has been planning to buy off the planets in the local systems so that they can colonise them and force the people to live in sanctioned stations, which gets more money in the pockets of the rich officials. That’s been their plan for a while, and we had a strategy to combat that – but now we’ve learned that they’re going to take initiative to practice some of their new weaponry technology on this system. There are several hundred thousand people who would permanently lose their homes were this plan to reach fruition. The issue is that the government hasn’t been giving these people a choice – they’re grossly underpaid and shuffled off their home worlds onto space hubs, where they’ll be stuck, unless they have ships. Which literally none of them will; these are rural and agricultural planets.”

“The modified plan is to mobilise the people living on the planets,” says Combeferre, setting a hand on Enjolras’s arm with easy familiarity. “If we can convince them all to fight back, to refuse to allow their homes to be bought for a fraction of the worth even were this lawful, then we might be able to show the government that this won’t stand. If we can demonstrate that we’re capable of protesting, they might reconsider.”

“Might,” says Feuilly slowly.

“Nothing is certain,” says Combeferre, “but this is the best shot we have. We have to figure out a way to dock on one of the nearer planets and from there we can involve the locals. I’m sure there’ll be some way of interplanetary communication that we can co-opt to spread the word to the other bodies in the system.”

Grantaire’s been silent until now, in the corner with Joly and Bossuet, but he speaks up at that. “And if you don’t convince the laymen that your lofty aspirations are worth fighting for? It’s easy for you to say, to come sweeping in, equipped with an easy way off the planets, and say _fight back_. How exactly are you going to mobilise them?”

“Grantaire has a legitimate point,” says Feuilly, when Enjolras opens his mouth to argue. “Do we have a more detailed plan as to what we’re going to say to convince them that we’re here to help?”

“Combeferre’s working on it,” says Courfeyrac, shooting Combeferre a look.

“I didn’t think I was – yes. Of course. I’m working on it,” Combeferre says, taken aback. “Enjolras?”

“We’ll come up with a more concrete plan as soon as we can; this was something we only just learned about recently.”

Bahorel narrows his eyes in suspicion. “And how did we learn about it, exactly?”

“An anonymous message from an independent pod suggested that we look into certain government files,” Combeferre admits. “We don’t know who sent it, but it was a pod that frequents this star system. It could be a trick or set-up, we haven’t ruled out that possibility,” he hastens to add, precluding Joly’s impending question, “but it seems unlikely.”

Enjolras walks to the front of the bridge and turns, looking at out the wide, bright expanse of stars. There’s a nebula in the high right corner of the window, rosy red interwoven with trails of purple and midnight royal blue, dust and stars. “If we can succeed in mobilising the people on these planets, we could really start the revolution,” he says, voice shaking a little. “From here, we can utilise these resources and materials to communicate to the other planets in the vicinity. We can feasibly gather a reasonable force to join us in opposing the government. We have a few leads who can get to insiders – Feuilly knows some workers who have jobs on government-owned hubs. Feuilly’s been a wonderful help in getting this off the ground. If we manage to have this work, we can keep it going, and it should end up succeeding.” He turns back, eyes shining. “We could seriously overthrow the government.”

There’s a moment of silence, then Combeferre lowers his head and murmurs, “To the revolution.”

The others follow suit, even Marius, whose fleeting feelings of belonging have fled, replaced with a sudden lightning bolt shock of anxiety, and an abrupt crippling fear of what will happen.

He’s seen what happens to rebel planets. He’s overheard the kinds of weaponry Gillenormand and Tholomyès have developed. He’s aware of what they can do.

He doesn’t think this ragged, revolutionary group does.

Enjolras lifts his head again. “Think about the future,” he murmurs, half to himself, half to the rest of them. “We liberate the people, we reclaim the planets and systems that are being unfairly controlled by the government, we re-establish a fair system. We can solve the problems of needing more weapons; when a people is not being oppressed by force, there’s no need for violent forms of control. We can work on growing and distributing the food supplies, instead of hoarding and rationing what little we have. We can move closer to healing some of the planets that are almost on the brink of destruction. We can move closer to healing. Our goal is still peace. We might have to fight to get there; there’s always going to be those who oppose such things, and we’ll do whatever is necessary if it comes to that. But in the end we must not forget that we are fighting for peace, for equality, for justice.”

There’s a moment of silence, and Marius bites down on his lip so hard it stings.

Feuilly brushes off his hands as he gets to his feet. “What exactly did the message that tipped you off say?”

“Here,” says Combeferre, and pulls up the projection.

The message is from an anonymous source, but the ship number is visible: P-27849372. The message is short, just a few sentences: _I heard you’re considering trying to fight back. You might want to try looking into government files AN-239.B and DE-0-876.q-0045, if you can. I think they’ll help prove your case. Also, good luck._

Marius frowns and props his chin on his knees. He’s never heard of those files in particular, but he can deduce their vague contents: _AN_ files contain documents which record population statistics per capita, and _DE_ files regard weaponry diagrams. He relays this information to Courfeyrac in a whisper, who in turns informs Enjolras, who looks taken aback.

“Combeferre was able to pull up some of the contents, the part that’s available to public record. Of course, that’s not everything, but it’s enough to solidify some potential links.”

 _Seven point three kilometres to destination_ , JEHAN breaks in, and everyone startles.

“Thank you, JEHAN,” says Bahorel, scrambling onto the bridge to check to navigation system. “Hey, can we track the SIN number of the ship?”

“The ship identification number of the ship?”

“Hey, cool it, ginger, some of us dropped out of school.”

“That’s a good idea, actually,” says Combeferre, shaking himself free of some reverie. “What was it again – oh, yes. Okay, it’s a private ship – that’s the ‘P’ in the beginning. The first four numbers refer to the location. They’re coordinates of the maker. 27:84, that’s – the Petit-Picpus star system. Do any of you know what’s in that area?”

“I’ve never been there, but I heard that the old _Convent_ was stuck on one of the hubs or something,” says Bossuet, leaning back in his chair in a casual way that would come across as suave were it not that he immediately topples over. “Ow, _shit_ . . . I’m okay, Joly, quit slapping me.”

“ _Convent_ ,” says Combeferre, hushed, almost reverent. “I thought that ship was taken apart for scrap metal.”

“The government tried,” says Enjolras wryly. “It was a huge scandal, the crew tried to claim it had been attacked instead of just malfunctioned. The captain – Simplice, I think was her name” – and there’s a look of contemplation on his face that Marius hasn’t seen before – “was particularly outspoken about it. In the end I think the crew managed to get the government officials to let them keep the ship, but only if it was taken out of commission. Docked, permanently.”

“So this one’s from the area – what does that mean? Should we go there?”

“No time,” says Enjolras, looking back out the window. “But we can look it up. In the meantime, we have nine planets in this system that we have to inspire.”

 

 

 

 

 

PETIT-PICPUS, 3010, VALJEAN

 

“You can’t stay here,” Fauchelevent is saying, determinedly intransigent. His hands are placed firmly on his hips, leaning slightly on his cane. A cord runs from his suit to the hub behind him, like a leash, a tether. It’s to prevent him from drifting away into empty space, but it looks like a chain.

Valjean tries to reach out for him, to put a comradely hand on his arm, but misjudges his mobility in the clumsy, awkward bulk of the suit and swipes sluggishly at the side of the ship, his fingers glancing uselessly off the smooth surface. “Fauvent – ”

“Don’t ask me, I can’t do anything, the rules are that no one else can enter the ship,” Fauchelevent hisses, static crackling over the sibilants. “If they find you here – ”

“That’s the point, I need somewhere to hide – ”

“There isn’t anywhere – ”

“Please – ”

“Look, Jean, I want to help you, but I can’t.” Fauchelevent wrings his hands as best as is possible while wearing a breathing suit. “It’s crew-only; they made an exception for me, since I’m the one who checks up on them. I’m supposed to report all new activity to the government officials. If they’re really chasing you, and find you here, they’ll have a solid excuse to lock you back up for the rest of your life, if they don’t kill you first. Or exile you to some planet where it rains glass sideways, or is literally engulfed in molten gold, or – ”

“I get it.” Valjean takes a stiff step away. “I’m not asking to stay here permanently, just – hide me under the bed or something. There’s got to be some way. Please.”

Fauchelevent sighs. “I might use your suggestion a bit literally. How much have you heard about this crew?”

“I know the ship crash-landed on the asteroid and the engines wouldn’t work, so the ship was converted into a hub,” says Valjean. “I know they eventually carved away the asteroid itself and left the ship unmoored. I don’t know any of the crew members; they were levels above mine. I never studied formally – I was a farmer. I only know Simplice by name, why?”

“It’s good that you know Simplice, because she’ll be hiding you, if this works.” Fauchelevent, relenting, turns to the keypad and types in a code. “She’s – strict, and uptight, and commands her crew firmly. She values honesty, so tell her the truth about why you’re here. And for the love of everything, do _not_ suggest you hide under her bed.”

Valjean offers him a forced smile – it’s all he can give – as he watches the hangar door clang shut behind them with finality.

 

 

 

 

CORINTHE, 3031, EPONINE

 

Éponine wastes all of three hours skulking through the main ship docking area on Corinthe before she decides on the nature of the report she’ll give when she returns to Taberna: no one on this planet is wealthy enough to be worth swindling, since none of them keep money or valuables.

She’ll say it took her three hours to figure this out, but in reality she’s spent most of the afternoon watching the people. She barely remembered what it was like to be under an atmosphere, much less on a planet whose primary export was agricultural supplies, so her mind has been running a near-constant loop of _grass! trees! birds! flowers! buildings! fields!_ ever since she first set food on land.

And the people – oh, the people. How long has it been since she’s seen someone not related to her?

Too long, is the answer. Far too long.

A woman passing her on the street steps on her shoe and apologises immediately, fervent and sincere, and Éponine doesn’t know what to do. She ends up laughing, almost hysterically, even after the woman scurries away in concerned caution; she hasn’t heard that simple phrase, _I’m sorry_ , coming from any other lips but hers in as long as she can remember, not with that level of sincerity.

She has another two hours before sunset, before the sun – red and huge and ancient and looming – sinks below the tree-fanged horizon, and she intends to spend it well.

Corinthe has two ship ports, one on either end of the planet. As planets go it’s a relatively small one, hosting only a couple hundred thousand inhabitants, with a small average of land per capita. Most of the available land area is taken up by agricultural fields and tributaries; there are no mountains, and hardly any hills. The buildings are low and squat and spread themselves out across the surface.

If she cranes her neck just right, she can see where the line of the horizon in the distance begins to curve.

The docking port is hardly busy; the only ships there are Taberna, a handful of freighters, and a small, sleek personal pod, with the SIN scraped off and the windows tinted. The pilot, a young girl who looks to be barely older than Éponine herself, is chatting animatedly with one of the dock workers, holding her helmet under one arm.

And there’s one more ship, off in the corner. It’s bulkier, made for long travels, and lacking any distinctive features.

This is the first thing that makes Éponine suspicious. Ships that don’t have SINs are automatically something to watch out for. _You never know when those pesky government bastards have an eye on you_ , her father used to delight in saying, and Éponine may have rolled her eyes at the time, but it’s left her just this side of paranoid.

There are no workers swarming the ship the way they’ve clustered about the others to help with restocking or fuel. That’s the second clue.

The third and final clue is the occupants: Éponine, pressed against the wall to avoid being seen by the dock workers as they hurry by, is in the perfect spot to see the faces of the two men who get out of the ship.

She doesn’t know the younger one, who looks like a snake about to strike, but she recognises the older. His face is plastered on posters all across the galaxies, captioned with cheery, motivational slogans and campaign taglines.

Gillenormand, Éponine thinks, and something cold seems to spill in her stomach.

 

 

 

 

LIBERTY, MUSAIN, 3031, GRANTAIRE

 

Marius is just the kind of doe-eyed upperclassman that Courfeyrac of all people would pick up like stray debris. It figures. He doesn’t even have anything to contribute, beyond half-useless extraneous information about the daily habits of various government officials – and worse is, Enjolras seems not to mind listening to Marius’s list of Gillenormand’s preferred spa planets, sitting there looking for all the world like he ought to be taking notes.

It _figures_.

It’s not until Marius lets something important slip that Grantaire finally admits he’s kind of jealous.

“We went to the outer nebulae once,” Marius is saying, almost dreamily, “to visit the planets there – I didn’t even know they were inhabited, grandfather always said they were his property but if there’s people on them then that doesn’t make sense – plantations, he called them, I think, I don’t remember exactly. He was there with – with Tholomyès, Félix Tholomyès, I don’t know if you know who that is” – but it’s obvious that they do, from their shared looks of disgust – “when they were working on developing their project – ”

Enjolras shifts. It’s a minute shift, barely noticeable, but Grantaire’s been watching him, and he picks up on it. “What kind of project?”

“I don’t know exactly,” says Marius, looking confused, “all I know is that they were talking about – oh! I was there one night, at dinner, when they mentioned it – some sort of weapon, that they said could destroy entire star systems – ”

This time it’s Combeferre who moves, sets a hand on Enjolras’s arm, that easy touch, that simple familiarity. “Marius,” he says, quiet and insistent. “Tell us everything you know about this weapon.”

 

-

 

“This is grounds for _treason_ ,” Enjolras is saying, pacing, gesticulating. “This is direct violation of the interplanetary laws set in place to protect inhabited bodies – this is grounds for _expulsion_ , for loss of office – this could be what we’re waiting for, all we need is proof – ”

“That’s not going to be easy to get,” says Feuilly dubiously.

“It could be anything – blueprints, plans, transcripts of conversations – maybe even a testimonial from Marius – ”

“They’re not going to listen to a bunch of radicalised anarchist rich kids,” says Grantaire, surprising himself; he blames the look on Enjolras’s face for how he keeps going instead of leaving it at that: “I don’t know about you, but if you were the government, would you be more willing to listen to an extracurricular justice club or legal officials? Some rich diplomat’s spoiled son who ran away to join a gang? Outlaws, pirates, thieves? You’ve seen what they call us – _you_ – in the headlines, you’re not stupid, you’re the farthest from stupid, so get it in your head that they haven’t listened to you yet and they won’t listen to you now. If you want to get into politics, work _with_ the government, instead of a baby revolution that you’ve cultivated under your bed in a petri dish. It won’t _work_.”

Enjolras opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again. “Are – you _seriously_ suggesting that we go along with the government? Is that what you’re saying? This is talking about mass genocide, that’s not a difference of political opinion, that’s people’s _lives_.”

“Shit, I don’t want to work with them any more than you do, but I’m just saying in terms of effective strategies,” Grantaire starts, regretting everything he’s ever done to lead him to this moment.

“I don’t want to get anyone hurt,” says Enjolras, more quietly than before. “If there were another way, I would take it in a heartbeat. But in this it’s a matter of cutting our losses and remembering that it’s a means to an end – I would _never_ sit back and let others fight, I will be on the front lines with them when the day comes. And I’ll condemn myself to the same fate as those innocent people in this system, who don’t know that the government is plotting to eradicate them simply for being _there_.”

There’s a long, heavy pause, then Bossuet murmurs, “Hear, hear,” and lifts his water bottle in quiet agreement.

 

 

 

CORINTHE, 3032, GILLENORMAND

 

“Planetary decay,” Gillenormand is saying, gesturing with a generic wave of his hand as they walk along the poorly-bricked street. “The orbit of the planet deteriorated over a period of millions of years, and the effects are beginning to impact the structural life of the planet itself in this time. The mass hasn’t been affected notably, but the speed and radius have both changed. The elliptical orbit of the planet has shifted into what could conceivably become a collision course within the next hundred years.”

“A collision with the local sun, I assume you mean,” says Tholomyès, hands in his pockets as he strolls along, looking to all the world as though he owned the decaying planet. “Is there any way to shift the orbit?”

“Not without forcibly colliding it with some asteroid or other. In terms of man-made alterations, no. That’s why we considered this planet to be a perfectly exemplary test subject for those laser missiles we were discussing.”

“Have you come up with a plan to remove the local demographic? We need some sort of excuse, and these lowlifes likely won’t be satisfied with, ‘Hey, your planet is dying, we’ve come to rescue you,’ will they?”

“Unfortunately not. The decay makes it a prime subject to test your new weaponry, especially since the planet will be gone in a few decades anyhow. Why not save some time, that’s the ticket. Efficiency. The only thing worth living for.” Gillenormand stops at the end of the street, looking out over the fields. “Shame; it was a relatively reliable resource for certain fruits and grains. Oh, well, we have the entire universe at our fingertips, Monsieur; why mourn the loss of one planet in an infinite system?”

“Systematic infinity,” agrees Tholomyès, and pauses as well to watch the fields briefly, a small, satisfied smile on his face, before turning about and heading back towards the ship.

 

 

 

 

CORINTHE, 3032, COSETTE

 

She steals the ship on the last day of the sun cycle. Cosette has a chip that she slides into its place on the console of the ship, a tiny holographic that shows her how the orbits of various planets stand in relation to their respective stars. The planet she was born on has just finished its cycle, and is starting a new one. It’s a new year, perfect for a new her.

The note she leaves for her father is brief, for want of the right words: _I’m sorry, Papa, but I have to go. I’ll be back soon. I have to find out about my mother._

It’s the simplest explanation for something that’s really much more.

She misses the sky.

 

-

 

The ship runs low on fuel near a system of planets on the outer ring of an asteroid belt, distant and secluded and small. From the looks of the atmospheres, she notes when scanning the radiograph, they’re plantations, planets which are primarily agricultural, planets whose human population is low, often negligible. The perfect place to lie low – she’s in the same star system that her birth planet is, but she doubts she’ll have enough fuel to reach the other end of the galaxy.

Corinthe, the planet is called. It’s small, mostly desert, with a few shallow lakes. The pH content is high, and the carbon dioxide makeup of the air is low. Cosette adjusts the homeostasis controls in the ship before she docks – the hub is tiny, barely large enough for her ship, and ancient, streaked with rust and chipped paint. There’s graffiti scrawled across the wall, the original message distorted with age, several letters unidentifiable.

Despite the size of the hub, there’s another ship docked across from her. Cosette switches on the view and zooms in to check the SIN; there’s nothing there.

Rust. Rust, deliberate rust, now that she thinks about it – the only part of the identifying number she can make out is _F-A3 –_

Her stomach feels sick, suddenly, and she shuts off the zoom. Her fingers reach out, unconscious, and touch the communications controls. She sent messages, ages ago, to that very ship. She watched the pilots of that ship get on the ramp to lift off, ages ago. She bumped into one of the crew members in the street.

She can picture him, floppy hair and wide, earnest eyes. She doesn’t know why the ship has landed _here_ , on a tiny planet that most have never come across on star charts or orbit maps, but it can’t be for a friendly visit.

They’re planning some sort of revolution, they’re some sort of space pirates – she doesn’t know the details. Details are hazy and elusive, but what’s solid and real is the look on her father’s face when he opened the door the day after the ship departed from R-Plumet and the government officials in their grey suits held up official sanctions and asked to interview them about possible connections with illegal and dangerous rebel smugglers.

Cosette doesn’t believe they’re bad people, but she _is_ curious about why they’re on this tiny backwater planet in the middle of nowhere. It’s the kind of place to plot a coup, a rebellion, a revolution.

She takes a deep breath and makes her decision.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr.](spacestationtrustfund.tumblr.com)
> 
> Planetary decay is a real thing, although it won't really affect planets anywhere near our own galaxy (enough to be notable) for millions of years.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not, uh, going to be only five chapters. Sorry. (On the plus side, that means you get to put off the actual part where everyone dies for longer? That's good, right? Right?)

LIBERTY, MUSAIN, 3032, COMBEFERRE

 

Combeferre has always wanted to be a pilot, just to exist in the infinite expanse that extends in every direction. Space is infinite; he can never get over that. _Infinite_. It goes on _forever_. He knows the human brain can’t even begin to comprehend the enormity of something infinite, but he can’t help dwelling on it – infinity. It’s _everything_.

Enjolras is sitting on the bridge, chin propped on his knee, one leg dangling off the railing. He’s sulking, far enough away from the rest of them that it’s obvious that he doesn’t want anyone else to know.

He’s sitting underneath the board that was originally meant to be for announcements but that dissolved into a place for every random memorabilia collected from their travels. Someone, Joly or Bossuet probably, has scribbled out the part of the writing that says “empty,” and written “Courfeyrac” in its place.

Combeferre has known Enjolras for over a decade now, travelled the universe with him, flown the same ship with their hands gripping the same controls, time and time again. He can’t imagine living without him or without Courfeyrac – they’re a team. They’re a full set. You can’t have one without the others.

He knows Enjolras well enough to know when Enjolras is upset.

It was twelve years ago when Combeferre first came across his favourite quote: _The universe is under no obligation to make sense to you_.

“I was reading about the first space missions, back before the original galaxy was destroyed,” he says, sitting down next to Enjolras and looking out at the wide window that shows the stars spread out before them. “When the people of Earth first went to their moon, on one of the missions, the ones where they put their flag on the moon? Well, one of the pilots left a picture of his family on the moon. That was – that was a thousand years ago, Enjolras. A thousand years, and the picture is still there, unchanged. The original crew is long dead, everyone who could remember them is long dead, the people in the picture have been dead for centuries. But they’re remembered, somehow, because of this. They’re eternal. They’re _still there_.”

Enjolras doesn’t speak, but he reaches out and grips Combeferre’s hand firmly.

“There’s a brown dwarf star that’s cool enough to touch, in theory,” says Combeferre. “There are planets made of diamonds, planets where it rains glass sideways, planets that spin backwards for no reason at all. A place where everything spins _backwards_ , Enjolras, isn’t it just – just – _breathtaking_ , you know? Where else can you show me a place where the world spins backwards?”

“It’s beautiful,” says Enjolras quietly, gaze fixed on the window. “You shouldn’t be able to destroy something so beautiful without reason. We shouldn’t be fighting over the universe – it’s big enough for us all, we have enough resources to support every human life – enough food, enough transportation, enough oxygen, enough green life, enough fuel – it’s just a problem of distribution. There are always people who want _more_ , and so others have to make do with less. And it’s unfair, it’s so unfair, and we have to _do_ something about it.”

“We are doing something,” says Combeferre. Sometimes he wonders if they’ll fail, if they’ll end up living out the rest of their lives in a government-sanctioned prison planet, one of the ice planets he’s heard about where serious criminals are detained, permanently. He doesn’t know of anyone who was sent to an ice prison who has ever returned. He doesn’t think anyone ever has.

Enjolras turns his head slightly to look at him, his cheek pressed against his knee. He looks so impossibly young, and Combeferre aches. He wants to take both Enjolras and Courfeyrac and wrap them up in his arms and protect them from anything and everything that would hurt them. He wants to protect each one of his friends, fight back anything that would hurt them.

“It’s going to be enough,” says Enjolras, with the quiet conviction that convinced Combeferre to follow him in the first place. “It has to be enough, so it will be enough.”

“Hey! Having a cuddle party without me?” It’s Courfeyrac – speak of the devil. He flings himself down next to Enjolras and loops an arm casually about his shoulder. “We’ll land on the first planet, the one closest to their sun, in about half an hour. Bahorel’s flying.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “I wish Feuilly would learn, he’d be ridiculously competent. And I could trust him not to ‘accidentally’ hit every bit of rubbish we encounter as target practice.”

“He’s a mechanic, he doesn’t want to fly,” says Combeferre. “Piloting isn’t the only useful job.”

Enjolras is focused, single-minded in a way Combeferre could never be; Enjolras identifies a goal and moves towards it with determination. Combeferre has the entirety of the universe at his fingertips—he can’t be so niche in his interests. _Once we make things better_ , Enjolras likes to say, leaving the fragment of a promise dangling there, tantalising: once they make things better, it will be easier.

Courfeyrac beams at them both, his smile wide and sincere. “I think this could actually work. I’ve been doing some reading up on the people who live on these agricultural planets, and they seem pretty oppressed. I mean they’re just workers. If we can get them to listen to us – well. I think they’ll be amicable. We’ll need them, though, if we want to take this to a government level.”

“I looked into those files,” Combeferre adds. He’s still sceptical of the anonymous whistleblower’s intent in sending those particular files to _Liberty_ , but he can’t deny that they’re just what they needed to solidify their case: details of capital contained on fringe agricultural planets, population statistics, weapon blueprints. Weapons that could conceivably destroy entire star systems without a single bit of debris.

Innumerable casualties. It’s horrible even to think about. Hundreds, thousands of innocent workers, farmers, mechanics. Entire planets obliterated – simply because a few rich bastards wanted to control the cosmos.

It’s unfair, like Enjolras said. It’s just not _fair_.

Combeferre pulls himself together and banishes the part of his brain that wants to keep whining. He can’t afford to waste time and energy on pointless complaining, not when they finally have a plan that could work. “Are we certain that Marius will help?”

“Marius has a heart of gold,” says Courfeyrac stubbornly, sounding almost offended. “He wants to help. It’s difficult – he was raised differently, it’s just – Enjolras, your family’s rich, you know what it’s like – ”

“I made the decision to leave,” says Enjolras, steely cold.

“So did Marius! He wants to help, Ferre, he really does.”

“All right,” says Combeferre placatingly, shooting Enjolras a look. “I trust you, and by extension him. What about Grantaire?”

Enjolras drops his head back down onto his knees, hugging himself. “What about him,” he says flatly, his voice muffled.

“Do you trust him?”

“Do I _trust_ – yes. _Yes_. I trust every one of my crew,” Enjolras snaps, firing up again. “Do you _seriously_ think he could sell us out – he would _never_. I wouldn’t let anyone on my ship if I didn’t trust – he’s not – we don’t always see eye to eye, but he wouldn’t betray us.”

“I meant do you trust him to be helpful,” says Combeferre, half amused and half something he can’t name at the moment, “but it’s nice to know that you regard each of us so highly.”

“I trust each one of you with my life,” says Enjolras, low and fierce. He’s always sincere, always entirely honest in everything he says. It’s one of the qualities Combeferre admires most about him: he doesn’t shirk away when things get slippery. He doesn’t lie, he doesn’t hold back, and for what it’s worth he loves his friends more than anything else in the universe. “I’ll handle Grantaire.”

“Well,” says Courfeyrac, pushing subsequent hands on Combeferre’s and Enjolras’s respective shoulders to leverage himself up, breaking the tension with the ease of smashing a pane of paper-thin glass, “I’ll go let Bahorel know that we’re good to land then, yeah?”

 

 

CORINTHE, 3032, COSETTE

There’s a crowd gathered in the market square when she arrives, and Cosette grits her teeth and applies her elbows liberally to get close enough to see. Even standing on her toes only lends her a flash of blond hair and familiar red pilot’s uniform, and her heart does a little sideways dance – it’s the same group, the same pilots from before. Why they’re here, she still doesn’t know, but she has to get closer; she kicks a few shins and bruises a few ribs on her way through the crush of people, but she makes it through eventually.

The blond boy from before is standing on an overturned apple crate and making some sort of speech – he has a perfect voice for it, all clear and carrying, but Cosette tunes him out in favour of focusing on the others. She catches a few words here and there: “government” and “obliteration” and “rebellion.”

And the crowd seems to be eating it up. Cosette doesn’t have a clue what they’re doing – she knows she’s in over her head, and a sudden guilty pang of remorse jolts through her. Her father must be frantic by now.

She struggles towards the centre of the crowd, and ends up smacking face-first into someone’s back. A very familiar someone, with floppy hair and freckles and wide eyes and a bright red pilot’s suit that’s clearly been handed down from someone with shorter limbs and a wider girth.

“It’s – it’s you!” His hands grab onto her arms as if on instinct, supporting her and preventing her from toppling over backwards. “Sorry, I’m sorry, I just – I saw you in the marketplace before, I didn’t know where you were from I didn’t think I would ever see you again – I didn’t mean to make it look like I was stalking you, I would never do something like that, I promise, I just wanted to see you – I didn’t expect to find you here – I don’t know how to talk to girls, I’m so sorry, you’re just so pretty and your eyes are very blue and I really like you I’m terribly sorry I knocked you over, _twice_ , and – and I don’t even know your name!” he finishes in a rush, eyes even wider than it should be humanly possible.

Cosette grins. She really can’t help herself. “I’m Cosette.”

“Cosette – hi, Cosette, yes – _Cosette_. It’s lovely to meet you, Cosette – ” And he drops her arms in favour of taking her hand earnestly between his own. His palms are slightly sweaty, but his eyes are sincere and eager.

“It’s lovely to meet you, too, but I don’t know _your_ name yet,” she points out.

“Right! Yes – sorry – right. My name’s Marius. Marius Pontmercy. I – I really am sorry for bumping into you.”

“It’s all right, promise,” Cosette assures him. “I bumped into _you_ this time, so we can call it even, I think.”

Marius beams, his smile sudden and endearing. “I still feel bad.”

“It’s okay, honest,” says Cosette. “You’re with them, right?” She leans in and stands on her tiptoes to whisper into his ear. “I’ll tell you a secret – you know those government files you got?”

“H-how – how did you – ”

“I sent them.”

Marius splutters, his ears going scarlet until they match his pilot’s uniform. It’s adorable, really. She has to smile at the expression on his face.

“I want to help you guys,” Cosette says, pulling him down by his overlarge shirt so that she can speak into his ear. He’s tall enough that she only comes up to about his mid-chest when stretched up on the tips of her boots. “I figured out what the government’s trying to do. They want to use these planets as target practice, to test out their new weapons. They don’t care about the people as long as they know their tech works. It’s not just that they’re going to clear the people off the planets without giving them somewhere to stay – they’re not planning to let the people _leave_.”

Marius’s face goes from embarrassed-red to angry-red. “The – the _bastards_ ,” he stammers. “I-I have to tell Courfeyrac – oh, right – Courfeyrac is my friend, I’m living with him – well, with him and his friends, on their ship – oh, this is a mess, I’m not good at explaining – ”

“It’s okay, I think you’re sweet,” says Cosette, and smiles at him. “Can I talk to Courfeyrac?”

“Yeah, yes, of course – just – you should talk to Enjolras first – the scary blond one, he’s the unofficial captain.”

“Unofficial?”

“It’s weird, I still haven’t got the hang of it,” says Marius, almost ruefully. He rests a hand tentatively on the small of her back as they start to make their way through the tightly-packed crowd, his fingers so light that Cosette can barely feel the touch. She could be imagining it, if not for the flush high on his ears.

 

 

CORINTHE, 3032, VALJEAN

Valjean was always a simple man. He remembers little of his life before Toulon, before the ice and cold and frozen metal bars that burned any flesh they touched. If he closes his eyes he can sometimes imagine his sister and her children, but when he tries to focus on their faces, nothing remains but a grey blur.

He’s never wanted a lavish lifestyle. He just wants to have _something_.

Cosette is smart, Valjean raised her to be smart, to know how to fly, but she’s still forgotten to remove the automatic tracker in the ship she stole. The navigation system pinpointed the lost ship at Corinthe, a planet in the outer Musain system; Valjean is currently in orbit around the planet, trying to figure out where the best spot is to land. There seems to be an unusually high number of ships docked at the hub, considering how far out from any major routes this whole system is.

He tells himself he’s hesitating because he wants to make certain that the situation is what he thinks it is before he goes rushing in to save Cosette, but he’s also aware of the dark grey stealth ships hovering just above the atmosphere, and the tell-tale lack of a SIN on their smooth sides.

Valjean knows those ships: police vessels, made for stealth, made for attack.

There’s something bigger than just Cosette happening on this planet.

 

 

LIBERTY, CORINTHE, 3032, ENJOLRAS

A plan. They have a plan: they’re going to negotiate with the government forces when they show up to deport the civilians and farmers, going to explain in clear but firm terms that these planets are the _homes_ of these people, that these planets are more than just systems to churn out resources for white-collar purposes.

“You’re going to be all right with improvising something to say?” confirms Combeferre, tearing himself briefly away from the maps and blueprints spread out all across the overturned packing crates they’ve repurposed as a table.

“I’ll manage,” says Enjolras. He has an idea of what he wants to say: the trick is to find the right words. Everyone is at heart a good person; the catch is finding what keeps them that way. All he has to do is to convince the government not to destroy these people’s homes.

Combeferre brushes his hand across Enjolras’s arm as he moves to look over the map of the subterranean sewage piping system on Corinthe. “Well, I’m going to talk to JEHAN about running preliminary checks to ensure that the ship will be able to handle a fight, should it come to it. If they’ve got the technology, and already view us as the problem, then they shouldn’t have too much of an issue with justifying an attack. Obviously that won’t be ideal, but we have to be prepared.”

“I’ll gather the others,” says Enjolras, and they part, Combeferre remaining in the warehouse on the ground and Enjolras hurrying towards the ship.

Feuilly is already on the bridge. Courfeyrac and Marius are looking through diagrams of old safety suits. Bahorel is arm-wrestling with Musichetta. Bossuet is attempting to juggle wrist cuffs with uncharacteristic success, and looks up when Enjolras approaches. “Joly and Grantaire are in Joly’s room, they’ll be out in just a minute.”

“We can wait,” Enjolras says, but Bossuet brushes him off.

“Nah, they said to go ahead, they’ll just be a moment, Joly just wanted to – uh. They’ll be out in a moment.”

Enjolras raises his eyebrows, but when Bossuet doesn’t explain further, he launches into his explanation.

The plan is straightforward: they’ll synch their communications systems to those of the government ships, explain in simple but decisive terminology that the people living on these planets have nowhere else to go, and that deporting the occupants of the system will essentially ruin their lives. “They come sweeping in like they own the lives of these people as well as the planets and cause upheaval that’ll leave aftershocks for the rest of these people’s lives,” Enjolras says, fuming, “and they have the audacity not to provide them with any compensation – they’re just going to deport them without any compensation, that should be _illegal_ – ”

“Wait,” says Feuilly, “without compensation? _That_ ’s ridiculous and unfair, they’re destroying their entire world. Literally.”

“And we’re just going to – talk the government into paying ’em for it? Personally I think our strategy should involve a lot more punching,” says Bahorel, and the easy grin he usually wears has become strained. “I mean, when it comes down to it, if we get thrown in a government ice prison, I’d rather have punched some things first, you know?”

“Violence shouldn’t be necessary,” says Enjolras firmly. If they can do this without any injury or loss of life, he’ll breathe easy.

Joly and Grantaire are still missing.

 

-

 

Synching the communications systems proves to be more tricky than anticipated.

“I can – do it – I just have to hack into the radio waves – ” Feuilly’s muttering under his breath, fingers flying over the panel. There are loose wires sticking out of JEHAN’s main interface, and the steady grumbling hum of the gears means that JEHAN isn’t exactly happy with all the meddling. “Something’s messing with the system, I don’t know exactly what it is – ”

“Are you all right?” asks Enjolras, both to Feuilly and to JEHAN.

“ _Dust and ashes, all men dissolve into flower petals and dust and stars are made of dust_ ,” JEHAN hums. Enjolras isn’t positive, but he thinks the lines of code running across the interface’s screen are in iambic pentameter. “ _Did you get it working yet?_ ”

“Al . . . most,” says Feuilly, distracted. “I just have to – switch the frequency and – ”

Enjolras leaves him to it.

 

-

 

Joly’s and Bossuet’s room is next to the kitchens, and they’ve shared it with Musichetta for as long as anyone can remember. No one’s actually sure what’s going on between the three of them, including apparently Joly and Bossuet themselves, but Enjolras for one isn’t about to pry into his friends’ personal lives.

He leans against the door and waits for Joly and Grantaire to notice him.

They’re sitting on Joly’s bed, sharing one of the pre-packaged liquid packs from the storeroom and talking in low voices. Joly says something about dreams, and Grantaire scoffs, then looks up and sees Enjolras standing there. “Wondered when you’d notice we were missing,” he says, and looks away.

“Oh, hey,” says Joly cheerily, getting up and groaning as he reaches for his cane; he waves his hand in dismissal when Enjolras moves to help him. “I’m fine, it’s been a lot better recently, I promise. Did we miss much?”

“We’re going to negotiate some sort of compensation for those who will likely lose their homes and everything they’ve worked for all their lives,” says Enjolras, which is the quickest summation. He doesn’t want to get too in-depth or he’ll end up angry again. It’s just one of those things that should be simple – every human being is entitled to having a place to live, some sort of shelter, a supply of food and water – but somehow it isn’t that easy.

Joly tilts his head to the side. “How long until they get here? Do we know yet?”

“Soon, I don’t know exactly how long,” Enjolras admits. He knows how woefully unprepared they are, that their best hope is to bluff and keep their fingers crossed that it will work.

“I’ll go ahead, then,” says Joly, and does.

There’s only one window in the room, but the curtains are pinned up, letting the light in, and the trees are visible through the plastic. It’s suddenly stifling in the room, and Enjolras wants to run after Joly; the way Grantaire’s looking at him makes his skin itch.

“Are you – all right?” he says, tentative: he doesn’t know what Joly and Grantaire were talking about, but it didn’t sound like a happy conversation.

Grantaire snorts and looks down at his hands. “Never been better. Space just messes with your head, sometimes.”

“It’s beautiful,” says Enjolras, “but, yes.”

“It’s fucked up,” Grantaire counters. “Terrible, awful, destructive, devastating. You, of course, think it’s beautiful. You’d look at a black hole and see the brilliance of science instead of the destruction. They can collapse stars, you know. Black holes are supposedly able to draw in the light from stars all about them,” he says wryly. “It’s a rubbish theory, really; or I would have drawn you to me already.”

“We have no proof of the existence of black holes,” Enjolras says. He’s not in the mood for this.

“They’re insignificant. Stars, though. Stars are something. I’ll drink to stars,” says Grantaire, and does, almost mockingly, lifting his drink and refusing to break eye contact as he swallows the contents.

“I wouldn’t call them insignificant.”

“Destruction on an unfathomable scale is hardly insignificant, if that’s what you mean,” Grantaire says bitterly. He sets his empty packet down on the table; a stray drop of liquid drifts out of the straw and floats, spherical and quivering, in front of his face. “If we limited ourselves to things we could prove, we would have died on Earth.”

“Some of us did,” says Enjolras.

Grantaire snorts. “It was sheer dumb luck that got us off that doomed planet. Pure god damn luck. And an EM drive, of course, but that’s all semantics.” He catches the floating drop on his tongue, raises his eyebrows at Enjolras, and closes the door behind him when he goes.

 

-

 

“The in-ship gravitational field isn’t working,” says Feuilly, looking up from the tangled mess of wires and controls that is JEHAN’s interface panel.

Enjolras groans and drags his hands down his face. “We’re still on ground, that shouldn’t be a problem, unless – what do you mean, not working?”

“I mean it’s losing energy,” says Feuilly, tapping the screen to bring up the holographic of the ship. “See, here – it can sustain the microgravity for now, but it’s wearing thin. Eventually we won’t have the artificial gravity at all.”

“How long do we have?” asks Enjolras. He thinks of the tiny sphere of liquid from Grantaire’s glass. “It’ll start with the smaller things, those with less gravitational pull of their own – Combeferre can calculate the – the – we can handle this, we _have_ to handle this.”

Feuilly rests his hand on Enjolras’s shoulder and finishes the holographic check one-handed while Enjolras closes his eyes and leans into the touch, forcing himself to breathe slowly. “I can make it last for another few hours. The government ships aren’t set to arrive for another” – he checks the clock – “hour and twenty. If we can close negotiations within an hour after that, we should be able to land safely.”

Enjolras swallows. His mouth still seems dry, but he’s not gasping for air, so it’s all right. “And if we don’t?”

“Well.” Feuilly squeezes his shoulder. “This is an old ship, you know? It’s probably time to get a new one anyway. If this goes how we want it to go, we can have our pick of ships.”

Enjolras doesn’t want another ship, he wants _Liberty_. “Fine,” he says, and rolls his head to one side, trying to loosen some of the tension in his shoulders. He’ll sleep better than ever once this is all over and they won’t have to worry about it. “So we have another hour, at least. Get everyone on the bridge, I want to talk to them.”

They have sixty ships in all, including the tiny emergency pods that are only equipped with enough oxygen to last for an hour and weapons only powerful enough to dent any decent ship. Sixty ships, against what’s meant to be six hundred. The odds aren’t impossible, but they’re slim.

The chances that the government forces will listen to reason are astronomically against them.

They have to succeed. They _will_ succeed. Enjolras will make it so. Sixty ships, fifty of which are still docked on Corinthe, where the fleets from every planet in the entire system have gathered. Sixty ships, armed as best as they can, piloted by any and every willing body. Sixty ships, most old and rusting, several running on outdated navigation systems, most low on fuel or oxygen or stabilisers, over half missing parts of some sort.

If it comes to a fight instead of diplomacy, they will have no chance at all.

They have to succeed.

Everyone has already gathered by the time Enjolras gets to the bridge – even Grantaire, still looking like he hasn’t slept in a week, hair a mess. Enjolras takes a deep breath and explains about the artificial gravity.

Joly taps his cane thoughtfully against his knees. “So we’ll be able to float, eventually? Zero-G? I wouldn’t mind losing a few pounds.”

“Mass isn’t directly proportional to weight,” scoffs Grantaire, and punctuates his statement with, “asshole.”

Joly pokes him with his cane, and Grantaire yelps.

“No, more likely what will happen is that the loss of gravity will affect the quality of the oxygen, as well as us,” says Combeferre. “It’ll shift to microgravity, which will in turn shift to loss thereof, which will then mean freefall. Not vertically, of course, but the effects of freefall will still be eminent. The first symptoms are dizziness, light-headedness, and a disruption in the proprioception system. If we aren’t able to fix the microgravity system, it’ll end up being more dangerous as time goes on and calcium in the bones wears away from lack of use related to pressure – osteopenia. Muscle also loses mass – which isn’t directly proportional to weight, yes – and that’ll make you weaker and more susceptible to injury. Overall, not fun.”

“The oxygen levels appear to be steady, but if they start dipping we’ll be in serious trouble,” adds Feuilly, without looking up from the nest of wiring. “We can survive, in theory, to a minimum pressure of 16 kPa. After that – well, we’ll suffocate and die.”

“Fun times to be had!” Bahorel taps his foot against the railing bracketing the bridge. “So, how much longer do we have?”

 

 

TOULON, PF SYSTEM, 3032, JAVERT

It’s been twenty times that the ice planet Toulon has turned over on its orbit around its brown dwarf star since Javert has laid eyes on the one prisoner who single-handedly made and ruined his career. The dwarf star supplies little more than the bare minimum amount of light and heat for a human being to survive; Javert can remember long hours spent in front of artificial lamps, trying to warm up, to chase away the cold that settled so deeply it hit bone.

Twenty cycles, and now, at last, there’s a little glowing mark on his tracker.

Valjean is, according to the navigation system, travelling rapidly towards a remote star system, with his putative trajectory being a planet called Corinthe. Javert has never heard of the system, much less the planet itself, but if Valjean’s headed that way, then something important must be there.

Javert takes a moment to check his communication system before he programmes the new course. He doesn’t have any new orders, pertinent to Valjean or otherwise. He allows himself a moment of reminiscence: his last mental image of Valjean is of the man shivering in the cold, still wearing the puffy, ugly jumpsuit, hair a mess, eyes wide pools of disbelief as he stared at the letter of parole in front of him.

Parole: Valjean listened attentively, nodded along at every requirement, promised he would stay within the prescribed area, swore by the stars that he would report back to Toulon on time.

And then he had vanished.

Javert’s spent the last twenty years of his life trying to find him.

He switches on the navigation system and stars to plot a course for Corinthe.

 

 

CORINTHE, 3032, GILLENORMAND

“Send out an area scan for malicious transpo,” says Gillenormand, and leans back in his chair with a sigh.

Tholomyès, beside him, waves a hand and the curtains covering the front window fall away, revealing the bright and shining expanse of the stars. Corinthe is a tiny pink dot in the broad swathe of space that’s visible. “If all goes well, this time tomorrow we’ll be selling the newest and best tech to the most influential names in the universe.”

“If this goes well,” says Gillenormand, “this time tomorrow we’ll _be_ the most influential names in the universe.”

 

 

LIBERTY, CORINTHE, 3032, ENJOLRAS

Enjolras feels like he’s going to fly apart at the seams from excitement and anticipation. He’s arranged the few flyable ships into a hasty phalanx, checked each supply of weaponry and ammunition, synched each navigation and communication system, and gone through the list of pilots at least three times already. Combeferre and Courfeyrac are working on connecting JEHAN’s systems to the other ships; _Liberty_ will be acting as the eyeball of the formation, if it comes to a battle.

Negotiations only is the goal, but Enjolras isn’t stupid, he knows that the government doesn’t care about people’s lives. When you’re so far removed from the ground beneath your feet, the weight that goes along with gravity, the firmness of a terrestrial structure, it’s easy to lose yourself by spinning off into the stars.

It happens to everyone: _star-struck_ , it’s called, getting awed by the sheer majesty and infinity of the universe. When you have the entire cosmos at your fingertips, it’s easy to forget about individual people. When all you can think of is how you want to own something so grand, it’s easy to forget that people live in such places.

It’s because of this that Enjolras has solidified his opinion: you can’t own space, it’s space, it’s the _universe_. You can’t own the stars any more than you can own someone’s opinion.

He has a map in his head of the star system to match the map on his wrist. He knows that if it comes to a fight, their chances of victory are slim. He also knows that sometimes all it takes is for a few people to do the right thing.

It’s Feuilly who comes running down the bridge of _Liberty_ , his hands and face and hair streaked with grease and dust from where he’s been rewiring JEHAN to match the frequencies of the other ships, and gasps into Enjolras’s shoulder, “They’re here.”

 

-

 

Enjolras is running towards _Liberty_ when a slim figure in a ragged pilot’s outfit dashes into his path and plants its feet. “Wait!”

He skids to a stop, confused; a closer look reveals that the figure is holding a box in its hands. The pilot’s outfit is ancient and ripped, some of the larger tears painstakingly sewn back together with clumsy stitches, and the date on the shoulder path proclaims it to be from over thirty years ago, the date of the first Intergalactic War. “Wait – I want to help – ”

Enjolras is impatient, but he isn’t going to turn down aid when it’s offered. “Can you fly?”

“Yes, I can fly, I’ve flown all my life – I can fly anything you want, tell me what kind of ship and I’ll do it – ”

“Basic carriage pods,” says Enjolras, and is met with enthusiastic nods.

“Oh, yes, I can fly those, I’ve flown those, I can do it – ” The voice has an odd accent that Enjolras can’t place and that he thinks might be fake. The figure in the ancient pilot’s uniform looks earnestly up at him, jaw set and eyes wide and sincere. “Just one question, though – do you know Marius, Marius Pontmercy? I think he’s with you – ”

“He’s one of our pilots, although I don’t actually know where he is at the moment,” Enjolras confirms, taking a step towards the ships; when the new recruit follows, he quickens his pace to a jog. “Here, talk to – Ferre, could you show one of the empty pods to, ah – ”

But neither a name nor a gender is offered, and Combeferre quirks his mouth into a half-smile as he leads their newest pilot towards the line of carriage pods waiting to be started.

 

-

 

Joly and Bossuet have left their positions and are sitting on the steps of some building with a small crowd of local children, entertaining them with stories of their travels. Musichetta is leaning against the wall behind them, her helmet tucked under one arm, watching them both with a fond look on her face, and Grantaire and Bahorel are standing nearby.

“ – blew up an _entire_ star – I know, I couldn’t believe it either – to be fair, it was billions of years old – that’s – how old are you? Five sun cycles? All right, on this planet that would make it be – a lot of times your age, imagine fifteen hundred million of you, but also you’re on _fire_ – ”

Everyone stops and looks up when Enjolras approaches.

“The great star come to bestow favours upon his unworthy satellites,” Grantaire says sarcastically, and Enjolras ignores him.

Joly pats one of the children on the head. “This is Navet and we love him, Chetta and I – and Bossuet, of course – are going to adopt him after this is all over.”

“Right,” says Enjolras. “But first we have to get this over with. It’s time to go.”

 

 

LIBERTY, CORINTHE, 3032, COURFEYRAC

Courfeyrac likes to say he can spot a government ship a kilometre away, they’re just so _ugly_.

He’s striding along next to Enjolras and Combeferre, all of them looking _great_ in their bright red pilot uniforms, headed towards _Liberty_ (which is totally a metaphor, if he’s being honest with himself), when none other than Marius Pontmercy barrels out of the crowd of onlookers, dragging some girl with him.

“Marius!” Courfeyrac exclaims, because he’s nothing if not welcoming. “Where the hell _were_ you, you bastard?”

“C-Courfeyrac – guys – I need to talk to you – ”

Marius has this adorable stammer he gets when he’s overexcited. Courfeyrac sets his hands on his friends’ arms and spins them about to face Marius. “Pontmercy! Thought you’d forgotten about us.”

“I would never – no, look – this is Cosette. Cosette, this is my best friend Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac, this is – Cosette. She’s a pilot too, she wants to help us, she’s _great_ , you should have heard the stuff she was telling me about how she got here – she stole a ship, actually stole it, but I mean to be fair it belonged to her dad but she took it without his permission and flew here just to help and she’s great and the best pilot and has really nice eyes – ”

Enjolras looks like he’s torn between just getting on one of the carriage pods and flying up to deal with the issues himself and waiting this out, and Combeferre is obviously trying not to laugh and failing kind of obviously at it. Courfeyrac holds up a hand to slow Marius down a bit. “Shh. You said she wants to help us?”

“Yes – oh.” Marius blushes bright red, his every freckle standing out like the first bright stars in the sky. It’s horribly endearing. “She’s the one who sent us the message – she knows about the government’s plan!”

Enjolras gets a dangerous expression on his face, but Cosette steps forwards and sets her hand on Marius’s shoulder. “I sent the message informing you about the files – I looked into what the government was planning to do, and you lot have the right idea, if a bit misguided. They’re not just planning to get the people off the planets and _then_ use them as target practice – they calculated the cost and effort of getting everyone safely away and decided it wasn’t worth it.”

“So they’re not planning to negotiate,” says Enjolras, and clenches his hands into fists. “Those _bastards_. They don’t care about human life – ”

“No, which is why I came to warn you,” says Cosette. “You need to stall them while we get everyone away safely. Their weapons are everywhere, there’s no way to destroy them unless you destroy the entire ship _and_ the blueprints, which would mean blowing up the engine room entirely. Unless any of you have explosives that you can somehow get to the centre of a massive ballista ship, the only way to do that would be to fly one of your pods directly into the ship – so I’m assuming you want to get everyone out safely.”

“That’s always the first goal,” says Enjolras firmly. “Cosette. You’re a pilot – do you know how to fly a freighter?”

Cosette nods, the set of her chin determined. She’s at least a head and a half shorter than Enjolras, but she stands tall.

“Then take _Liberty_ , it’s the biggest ship we have. Get the children, the women, and the married men off the planet first. Anyone who’s not of majority. The nearest habitable system is – half a light year. The hyperspeed drive should be working again. Feuilly – our mechanic – fixed it earlier. We’ll stall them for as long as we can.”

“Also, congrats, Marius is a lucky bastard,” Courfeyrac chimes in, punching Marius affectionately on the arm, and Cosette blushes.

Marius stares after her while she walks away and doesn’t respond the first three times Courfeyrac calls his name. Courfeyrac decides he’ll explain to Marius why that’s a bit much after this is all over.

 

 

CORINTHE, 3032, GRANTAIRE

Enjolras when he’s angry is like a supernova: beautiful, bright, glorious, but dangerous to touch. There’s a slightly lower risk of explosion, but calculations are really just guidelines.

“They’re planning to kill everyone on this system without even turning a hand,” Enjolras is saying, almost seething. “They wouldn’t even give us the time to get everyone safely off the planets, so our job is to stall them. Cosette is handling _Liberty_ , and JEHAN will help her, so that we can get as many people to safety. We have about a dozen carriage pods that we can fly, but those aren’t made to go much higher than a couple thousand kilometres, so we’ll have to watch our distance. I’m going to explain to the people out there that their lives are in danger, and that they have the chance to leave or to stay and try to stall the government forces for as long as possible. If it comes to a fight, our chances are few – but we have to fight. If we can save even one person more, we have to fight.”

The thing about Enjolras is that he lives in both worlds: he belongs in space, but he loves the people below. He isn’t like the government officials, who are so far removed from planetary dwellings that they forget that the inhabitants of other worlds are human. He isn’t like surface-dwellers, who live out their lives confined beneath natural or artificial atmospheres, held back from the stars.

Enjolras lives with his head in the stars and his feet on the ground. He’s larger than life, almost impossible to imagine; if he weren’t standing there in front of them, it would be difficult to believe that he’s real.

“I’ll explain to them,” Enjolras finishes, and leaves.

There’s a moment of silence and then Bahorel breaks in almost cheerfully, “Well, we’re screwed.”

Feuilly punches him in the arm. “Don’t be such a pessimist, we have to try.”

“Doesn’t mean we’re not screwed. Hey, I’m still gonna fight. I wouldn’t dream of anything else,” Bahorel argues, and the worst of it is that he’s sincere in his words. Every person there is more than willing to die so that the innocent people on these planets might just have a slightly less hopeless chance at survival.

It’s bullshit.

Grantaire isn’t going to complain, because he’s not stupid, but he still doesn’t see the point of risking their lives for a bunch of people they don’t even know; it’s not their job to rescue every lost soul who can’t manage to fight back, and it’s not their job to make the government act the way it ought to be acting. He isn’t going to complain, because he’s not stupid and because when it comes down to it he doesn’t want to disappoint Enjolras, but it’s still bullshit.

The entire god damn universe, and they still think they can save every person in it.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for this chapter: some (off-screen) violence, death(s).

CORINTHE, 3032, ENJOLRAS

On the holographic screen above, the image of Luc Gillenormand – face blown up to a larger-than-life resolution, eyes pixelated – leans forwards and says, static clouding his voice, “We don’t negotiate with space terrorists.”

Enjolras bites down on his lower lip and has to stop himself before he breaks the skin. “Human lives aren’t negotiable,” he says. The holographic of Gillenormand flickers; the comms on this carriage pod are superannuated and shaky, and Enjolras misses _Liberty_ so much he can feel it as a visceral ache in his chest. “Just give us a few hours to get everyone to safety, at the very least.”

“You’re mad if you think I’ll just sit back and allow a ragtag ensemble of outlaw pirates to kidnap workers.”

“So instead, you would blow them all up for target practice?” Enjolras knows full well that enraging Gillenormand is the opposite of their endgame, but all he can focus on is keeping him arguing for as long as possible. The comms unit on his wrist has been beeping quietly for the past twenty minutes, gently confirming that _Liberty_ – and Cosette – are still active.

Gillenormand scoffs, looking impossible bored with the conversation. “You’re young – ”

“That has _nothing_ to do with my ability to recognise that human lives are at stake, and that you – the physical embodiment of the government, you who are supposed to be responsible for _us_ – are prepared to throw them away so that you can perpetuate your own selfish goals.”

“ – and can’t understand business,” says Gillenormand through gritted teeth.

“If business is murdering thousands of innocent people, then I have no interest in it.”

“Business is making sacrifices for the greater good.”

“The greater good,” says Enjolras, voice rising. Morality has nothing to do with age, and this isn’t any kind of business he wants. “This is _not_ the greater good. If any sacrifices will be made, they will be made willingly. The greater good is not slaughtering thousands of innocent people who are at this moment cowering and waiting for annihilation because they have no way to escape but you – you, who plan to kill them. You can preach and blather all you want about how the ends justify the means, but what are your ends? Your vision of the future only includes yourself. Where are these people, then? Workers, supplying you with everything you could possibly want? Personal servants, ensuring that you never have to lift a finger? Slaving away their lives so that you can live a life of ease and comfort while they starve and struggle? That is not an end that could be justified in of itself. Your vision of the future is exclusionary and immoral. The future requires equality – _everyone_ has to have a chance at a better life, not just the rich and powerful. Every single person, from the lowliest sewage worker on some distant unknown planet in the far reaches of the galaxy to the richest government official who spends all day in a plush office while servants do his every task – every person deserves to live.”

There’s a more prolonged beep from his wrist – Cosette’s signal. They’ve stalled for long enough. There’s a sort of wild hope in Enjolras’s chest as he subtly moves his left hand to his right wrist to let Cosette know that they got the message.

Gillenormand, on the screen, is laughing. “That’s a pretty speech,” he says, wiping his eyes, “but it’ll take more than pretty words and a pretty face to get you what you want. You young people are all the same – you think you know better, you think you know everything there is to know about everything there is, you think you could run the entire damn universe. Well, let me tell you, boy – you’re wrong. You don’t know a damn thing. You think it was an easy climb to the top? I had to fight every step of the way. I deserve a bit of comfort.”

“Comfort doesn’t have to come at the expense of others,” says Enjolras quietly. “And morality has no age limit.”

“You don’t know how this world works,” says Gillenormand, shaking his head. “You’ve never really had to fight for something you truly cared about, body and soul, only to see it ripped from your hands. You’ve never had to deal with the ugly side of things. You think you’re living such a glamorous life, all glam and glitter in space, being the rogue pirates that every kid reads about in storybooks – you’ll wind up in an ice prison, if you’re lucky. You’ve never really had to fight for something, or you wouldn’t think the way you do.”

Enjolras can feel himself shaking, and has to force himself to take a breath before he answers. “I am fighting,” he says, “for the lives of those thousands of innocent people down there on those planets, whose entire worlds _you_ are planning to wipe out without batting an eye. I am fighting for the lives of my friends, for the lives of every person in this universe, for the universe itself. I am fighting for _justice_. And if it’s a fight you want, then it’s a fight you will get.”

Gillenormand starts to open his mouth to say something else, and Enjolras reaches out and ends the holographic without hesitation.

 

CORINTHE, 3032, EPONINE

Cosette is leaning over the controls of the freighter, biting her lip, eyes narrowed in concentration as she coordinates the navigation systems. “The government ships haven’t started attacking yet, so I can only hope that Enjolras has managed to stall them – ”

Éponine slinks up to the controls and slides into the secondary passenger’s seat, leaving the third empty between her and Cosette. “We got everyone who wants to leave,” she says, voice deliberately low and rough.

Cosette beams and extends a hand across the breach between them to punch Éponine playfully on the shoulder. “How’s it feel to be labelled as space pirates, huh?”

Éponine shrugs. She’s familiar with the appellation.

“This is a great ship,” says Cosette, tapping her fingernails on _Liberty_ ’s console, “but it’s got some serious issues. I should – my Papa fixes ships, I should take it to . . . him.” She falters, chewing on her lower lip again. “Right. I forgot.” She turns to Éponine to explain – “I ran away, and he’s probably going to be furious.”

“I ran away too,” says Éponine grudgingly, “but I don’t think my family would miss me.”

Cosette gives her a sympathetic look. “Well, I guess we’re pretty much in the same ship here – ha, literally. Hey, you never told me your name.”

“Gavroche,” Éponine lies, setting her chin firmly, drawing in her shoulders to make her chest seem flat and looking away from Cosette.

Cosette’s mouth drops open. “You’re – no way, _you’re_ Gavroche? I _know_ him – well, know _of_ him – he was the one who sent me the gov files I needed to help the – I can’t believe this! You’re amazing!” And, before Éponine can react, Cosette has climbed out of her chair and is hugging Éponine. Up close, she smells like engine grease and something sweet and flowery. Éponine doesn’t know what to do.

She hugs herself once Cosette pulls away. “Yeah, that’s me,” she says, gruff. “Don’t go spreading it about, yeah?”

Cosette smiles brilliantly. “If you don’t want everyone to know, then I won’t tell – it’ll be our little secret.” She rubs Éponine’s shoulder comfortingly. Cosette, Éponine decides, is an extremely tactile person.

“Yeah,” says Éponine, and ducks her head, pulling her hat down to shade her eyes.

Cosette gives her one last smile and turns back to the ship’s dashboard. “Well, we did our part, so now it’s time to head back and see how the others are doing. Can you believe it? We saved those people, we’re . . . done with . . .” Her voice trails away into nothing.

There’s a flashing message on the screen.

Cosette’s teeth close on her lip again as she taps the _open message_ button on the console.

REQUEST TO DOCK, the message proclaims, and barely a second later Éponine clutches the arms of her chair as an unknown ship attaches to _Liberty_ ’s side, the landing gear scratching the side as it extends across the metal surface.

“What – is – going – _on_ ,” Cosette growls, and bolts out of her chair.

Éponine follows her, heart in her throat. The list running through her head goes from bad to worse: the government, the police, her parents, the unsavoury gang of actual criminals they like to work with –

It’s none of the above. The airlock hisses open, revealing a tall figure in a pilot’s uniform that’s been painted black, a blood-red rose embroidered over the space where the name badge ought to be. There’s a gun in his hand and a holographic document sticking out of his pocket, his posture casually risqué, one hip cocked, knee bent slightly.

“Fancy seeing you here, Ponpon,” says Montparnasse, and winks. “Miss me, darling?”

 

CORINTHE, 3032, VALJEAN

The surface is deserted – no signs of intelligent life, just waving fields of crops and the occasional stumpy, stubbly tree poking out of the dirt, branches twisted and scraggly. Valjean slams shut the door to his ship and dashes to the nearest building, fully prepared to force the door; it’s unlocked, and the rooms inside are empty of life. There are maps and blueprints spread out all across the tables in the largest room, but no people anywhere.

He curses and spins about, running to the next building, heart pounding a frantic rhythm. _Cosette_. He has to find Cosette.

Cosette isn’t in any of the broad, flat metal buildings lining the main street, and she isn’t in any of the smaller, vertical cafés on the side streets, and she isn’t in the dockyard. There are, in fact, no people in any of these places.

Valjean finds the stolen ship in the hub, unlocked, empty. He falls to his knees in the cockpit, clutching the seat for support, head falling against the cool metal of the wall.

Cosette is gone.

 _I promised her mother I would keep her safe_ , Valjean thinks, and slides to the floor, limbs too heavy to bear even though the gravity on this planet is so much less than it was on Toulon that he knows he could probably lift the entire ship.

He promised Fantine on her deathbed that he would protect her daughter with everything he had, and he’s failed.

Cosette is _gone_.

The holographic of the two of them is still affixed to the dashboard, right next to Cosette’s series of actual photographs of the stars. Valjean takes the holographic down and cradles it in his hands, numb, breath unsteady. Cosette’s bright face beams back at him, pixelated and diaphanous.

There’s movement in the doorway behind him, and Valjean turns so fast he slams into the seat.

It’s not Cosette standing there, but someone Valjean thought he would never see again – Javert.

“How odd to see you here, Mayor,” says Javert, and smiles like a wolf.

“Javert,” says Valjean warily, reaching as surreptitiously as he can for the blaster stored in the compartment behind him. “Where is everyone?”

“They’ve been kidnapped by pirates,” Javert says, without moving. Valjean creeps towards the weapon. “We’re solidifying negotiations for their release at the moment. But you, why are you here? Last I saw you, you were in control of M. Saint M., galaxies away. What brings you to this planet?”

“I’m looking for my daughter, Javert,” Valjean bites out, letting his fingers move slowly towards the hatch fastening the compartment. “I traced her ship here, but I can’t find her, and no one seems to be living on this planet.”

Javert’s smile is sharp and fanged. “Oh, people live here, normally. Your daughter, you say? She wouldn’t happen to be named Euphrasie, would she?”

“Why would you think that?” says Valjean, as casually as he can manage while reaching for the lever.

“There’s a girl working with the pirates who calls herself Euphrasie Fauchelevent. Of course, silly me, she can’t be your daughter – that would be Cosette Valjean, wouldn’t it, and that’s not who’s helping them. So of course it can’t be the same girl. A good thing, for you; it would be terrible if your own daughter was found guilty of aiding pirates and terrorists.”

Valjean gives up all pretence. “Javert,” he says. “Javert, please. I need to find her.”

Javert doesn’t falter. “You broke parole by vanishing from the record. You refused to turn yourself in. You escaped. You’re a criminal. I can’t ethically let you walk free.”

“She’s my _daughter_.”

“I can’t go against orders,” says Javert, and there’s no sign of emotion in his words.

Valjean takes a full step back, away from Javert and towards the gun hidden behind him. “She’s all I have, and I need to find her, I _need_ to know that she’s safe. I don’t know why she’s – with those people, but I promise I won’t interfere with that, I just need to get my daughter.”

“You need to turn yourself in.”

“She’s all I have, Javert – ”

“I can’t disobey direct orders,” says Javert, impassive, and Valjean finally unlatches the compartment and gets the weapon out.

“Can’t, or won’t?” He directs the barrel at Javert and hovers his finger over the trigger. “I don’t want to have to do this.”

Javert stands, stoic, before him, and lifts his chin in defiance.

It’s the first time Valjean has seen any sign of rebellion from him in almost thirty years.

 

CORINTHE, 3032, MARIUS

Enjolras has gathered the civilians who want to join the fight and arranged the ships remaining into a hasty phalanx formation. The only piece missing is the point, which will be taken by _Liberty_ , once Cosette returns from her final trip.

They’ve landed again on Corinthe, and the government ships are an impending cloud amassing in the sky above.

Marius keeps catching himself staring upwards, scanning the thin clouds for a sign of _Liberty_ , a sign that means Cosette is safe.

Time crawls onwards, lethargic, frenetic.

Marius can’t focus.

Enjolras actually snaps his fingers impatiently when he realises Marius has been drifting off into the clouds, and Marius ducks his head in embarrassment, face hot. Courfeyrac drapes a comforting arm across his shoulders, rubs his back, lets him lean his head against something.

“We have about half an hour, standard time, before their weapons are powered up,” says Feuilly, gesturing to the blueprints spread out on the planning table. “Until Cosette returns with _Liberty_ , we don’t have anything else to do but wait.”

“Wait to die,” says Grantaire from the corner, and Enjolras’s mouth tightens.

They’d taken all the superfluous baggage from _Liberty_ ’s hull and left it piled in the storeroom on Corinthe; Bossuet and Joly are determinedly eating their way through the store of rations, while Bahorel is admiring the backup weaponry they’d had stashed away in case of an emergency. It is an emergency, right now.

“Well,” says Bahorel, squaring his shoulders. “It’s gonna be one hell of a fight. But at least we’re together. Always thought we would be, in the end.”

 

-

 

Bossuet and Joly and Grantaire head towards one of the taller buildings after a moment, not needed presently, and Courfeyrac tugs Marius towards the metal porch jutting out from the squat metal rectangle that is the main building.

“So,” says Courfeyrac, nudging Marius affectionately with his shoulder. “You sure you want to do this?”

Marius isn’t sure at all.

The sight of his grandfather had thrown his heart into turmoil, and he’d fled from the room almost as soon as Enjolras had started to speak. The thought that his grandfather was perfectly willing to destroy so much, to kill so many people, had nearly made him sick, and he’d spent a good ten minutes shivering in the kitchens while Musichetta rubbed his back and served him hot drinks in little plastic packages. He wants to hate his grandfather, but there’s still a part of him that feels like a scared kid, terrified of bringing that awful, irascible wrath down on his head, terrified of disobeying or going against the wishes of the adults, who – as they were quick to remind him – knew best.

“I don’t know,” he admits, and hugs himself. “What about you?”

Courfeyrac scoffs. “Aw, I’ve got no trouble. If all my friends were jumping off a bridge – ”

“They’re not, though,” Marius points out.

“If all my friends were risking death to fight for what they believe in,” Courfeyrac amends, and – following some impulse – grabs Marius’s hand. “Hey. Either it’ll be okay, or it won’t, but at least we have each other. And we’ll certainly make an impact!”

“I just don’t know if this is the best way to do it,” Marius blurts out, and then hastily claps his free hand over his mouth, surprised by the force of his own voice.

“Trust me,” says Courfeyrac, “I’d much rather not have it be like this, you know? But we’re fighting back. Something has to happen for a change to be realised – agh, I sound like Enjolras, but it’s true. We just have to trust that others will be brave enough to take up the torch and keep fighting the good fight.”

He squeezes Marius’s hand, and tips his head onto Marius’s shoulder. Marius barely avoids sneezing directly into Courfeyrac’s wild mess of black curls.

 

CORINTHE, 3032, ENJOLRAS

Combeferre is the one to spot _Liberty_ on the navigation systems, to run over to where Enjolras is watching Feuilly braid together loose wires on one of the carriage pods. Enjolras throws his arms about Combeferre’s neck, and impulsive act that leaves Combeferre looking confused but pleased, and together they hurry to gather the others.

There’s a fire that’s started to burn somewhere in Enjolras’s chest, and he can feel the heat spreading. His purview has narrowed to this one goal. He knows they might die, but if they have to die, then they can at least make a statement – this, the murder of entire planets, is what the government is fully prepared to do, with no qualms in regards to taking innocent lives.

And it’s wrong, and they’re going to _do something_ about it.

“Are we ready?” asks Bahorel, who’s been passing the time arm-wrestling with Musichetta and losing graciously. Enjolras nods, and rests a hand briefly on Bahorel’s shoulder before he hurries to gather the others.

Feuilly scrambles to collect his wiring project in his arms as he runs towards the hub where _Liberty_ should be docking, and Combeferre stops to help him so he doesn’t trip or drop anything. Courfeyrac and Marius have been sitting on the steps of the main building, talking, but get up when they see Enjolras approaching. “It’s time?” asks Courfeyrac, sounding breathless, and Enjolras grips his arms briefly before moving on.

Joly and Bossuet and Grantaire have retreated into one of the abandoned shops, and are gleefully chatting with some of the native pilots who have decided to join the ABC in their fight – two girls in wrinkled pilot’s uniforms that look like they’ve been dragged out of some dusty old attic, and an older woman with a helmet and a handful of blasters.

Bossuet is sitting on the windowsill. “Hey, Enjolras,” he says, looking up. “Time to go?”

“Yes,” says Enjolras. Joly is sitting on a table, swinging his legs to some beat only he knows; Grantaire is the only one of them actually sitting in a chair, but he’s got one of the girls in his lap, and seems occupied. “ _Grantaire_ , it’s time to go.”

Grantaire looks up. “What, are you jealous? I wouldn’t mind if you wanted to take her place – Matelote’s a lovely girl, but she’s no you, of course.”

Matelote laughs, grabs her helmet from the table, and stands up, brushing herself off. “I wouldn’t dream of imposing, sweetheart, Gibelotte and I don’t have an open relationship,” she says, and takes the other girl’s arm as she and the older woman leave to go take their positions.

Enjolras closes his eyes briefly to ground himself. “We have only a few minutes before we need to be in the air. Our goal is still to protect these planets, so we’ll be waiting until they attack. That should be in about – ” He checks his wrist. “About twenty minutes.”

“Plenty of time to relax, enjoy ourselves, have a drink,” says Grantaire, standing up and stretching; Enjolras looks over at Bossuet, still perched on the windowsill. “One last drink at the end of the world. These worlds, at least.”

“No,” says Enjolras firmly. “We have to focus.”

Grantaire snorts. “Whatever you say, boss,” he says, and lets Joly lean against him as they leave, Bossuet hurrying after them, tripping over his own boots and stumbling out the door with a good-natured cry for them to wait up until he stops inadvertently trying to get himself killed before the whole affair does it for him.

 

-

 

“There’s a problem,” says Combeferre, as soon as Enjolras arrives. “ _Liberty_ isn’t responding to our calls, and she isn’t landing.”

“You haven’t been able to talk to Cosette?” Enjolras starts a message as quickly as he can. “That’s not good – Cosette’s up there with a couple others. Have you been able to connect with JEHAN?”

Combeferre hesitates, and Enjolras knows, suddenly, that whatever’s wrong is terribly wrong. Combeferre, usually full of surety and confidence and knowledge, looks afraid.

“JEHAN’s offline,” he says, and Enjolras _knows_.

“Get to your ships,” he yells, and starts running. There’s only one reason why JEHAN would break contact, and that’s if _Liberty_ herself were taken. He doesn’t know what’s happened to Cosette or the others, only hopes that she was able to get everyone to safety. They’re going to need to fight.

Combeferre takes the carriage pod beside him, and Courfeyrac the one on his other side. Enjolras hasn’t flown one of these smaller ships in a while, but the controls are relatively similar, and it’s built to be simple. He activates the navigation, checks the weaponry, and deactivates the autopilot. Anything that he doesn’t absolutely need can go to conserve energy.

He keeps one hand pressing the comms system, trying to call Cosette.

All the screen displays is the blank empty grey of a failed connection.

 

-

 

Enjolras is about to give the order to take off when Marius’s comm disconnects.

“Marius – _Marius_ ,” Enjolras hisses, but Marius is already out of his pod and running across the field towards the building they’d been in before.

“I’ll get him,” Courfeyrac says, and then _he’s_ gone, running after Marius and yelling his name.

Enjolras lets his head thunk against the dashboard. “Combeferre,” he says into the microphone on his wrist. “I’m going to go get them. If we’re not back in two minutes, give the order to go anyway.”

“Of course,” says Combeferre, and Enjolras slams the door with just a little too much force as he takes off after the two of them.

He finds Courfeyrac just inside the entrance, out of breath, staring into the room. Marius is there, crouched on the ground. There’s a man lying next to him, and a girl standing with one hand on Marius’s shoulder and the other on the arm of a third person who Enjolras recognises as the eager volunteer pilot from earlier.

“Explain what exactly,” says Enjolras, “is going on.”

Marius looks up, face flushed. “I don’t think he’s dead, but he’s definitely unconscious – I saw smoke and thought something was on fire, but then I saw the crash. One of the emergency escape pods! And I found Cosette,” he adds, sheepish.

“I can see that.” Enjolras kneels swiftly beside the body and checks the pulse. The man is alive, but his breath is shallow and his face pale. He’s wearing the uniform of a law officer, but he doesn’t appear to be armed. Enjolras sets one hand on his own weapon anyway. “We need to get him to one of the ships – Joly or Combeferre can make sure he’s all right – ”

“Sorry,” says Marius. To his credit, he does look apologetic, but the regret is mainly drowned out by the obvious happiness at seeing Cosette.

Courfeyrac presses something into Enjolras’s hand. “His identification card,” he says. “His name’s Javert, he’s in his fifties, and he’s a police spy.”

Enjolras swears and stands up. “I still don’t want to let him die. We can try to work out some sort of hostage situation, to exchange him for _Liberty_. But we have to do it quickly.”

Courfeyrac supports one arm, and Marius gets the other, while Enjolras – the only one with a weapon – makes sure they’re not being followed. Javert is perfectly limp, but Enjolras doesn’t dismiss the idea that he could be faking the severity of his injuries. Most people don’t stay unconscious this long after being knocked out unless they have serious brain damage.

The ships are still waiting when they arrive, and Combeferre and Feuilly are huddled together in the waist-high grass, talking frantically.

“Nice to see you guys too, we caught a spy – well, someone did most of the work for . . . us. What’s going on?” Courfeyrac drops his portion of Javert’s weight and dashes forwards, almost stumbling directly into Combeferre. “What happened? Is everyone all right?”

Combeferre points at the sky in response.

High above them, where _Liberty_ is still drifting, unmoored, the government ships have formed a circle. Their weapons, now fully readied, are all pointed at the ship locked immobile in the centre.

 

-

 

“Is there – there’s gotta be a way, a hard drive or something – a generic USB, can’t we do _something_ to get JEHAN out – ”

Feuilly’s face is pale, each freckle standing out starkly against his pallor, and his voice shakes when he says, “I-I think I could. Get JEHAN out, I mean. If I had access to the ship – ”

“How close would you have to be?” Combeferre’s bitten his lip enough that there’s a smear of blood on his mouth. “I don’t think they’ll let us near the ship without some sort of reason.”

Enjolras turns. “The spy,” he says, and gestures to Javert with one hand. There’s a terrible sort of determination in his face. “We offer to negotiate. We release the spy, and they release the ship.”

“We’ll lose any sort of leverage we have – ”

“This is our _friend_ ,” Enjolras snarls. “I don’t want any unnecessary deaths, I don’t _care_ about the spy as long as we have JEHAN safe – ”

Javert coughs quietly in the corner, and Enjolras turns sharply, every muscle tense.

“It might be a bit too late for that,” says Javert, and coughs again; it’s more ragged this time, real, and flecks of blood colour his lips. The wound on his head is still bleeding, the stain spreading across his torn shirt.

High above them, where _Liberty_ is still hovering helplessly, the government ships are firing up their weapons.

Enjolras swears, grabs for a weapon, reaches blindly for the controls. His hands fly across the empty dashboard of the pod, searching, desperate; he slams his fist against the power button, over and over, futile and aching.

“There’s nothing we can do,” Combeferre manages, looking stricken, and Enjolras lets out a guttural sound, like a sob.

 _Liberty_ goes out like a star exploding, a colossal burst of colour and light that spreads across the whole wide panorama of space, fire and fuel and metal flying in every direction. The engines explode all at once, white-hot waves of flame wrapping the metal skeleton of the ship, until the fire falters from lack of oxygen and, slowly, slowly the light fades until there’s nothing left but bits of debris and flotsam, drifting aimlessly.

“ _No_ ,” says Courfeyrac, a gasp of air. There are tears glittering in his eyes, sharp and haunting.

Enjolras remains slumped over the dash for a long, heavy moment, then he turns. His face is set, and his eyes alight when he lifts his chin determinedly. “Your friends,” he spits out, blazing gaze directed where Javert is still slouched pathetically in the corner, fingers gripping his wrist so hard the blood has drained from the spot, “your _friends_ have just killed you.”

Javert grins, blood in his mouth and on his shirt collar, his voice raw and choked. “We’ll all be dead soon enough,” he says, and coughs until his teeth are stained with red.

**Author's Note:**

> [I'm on tumblr,](http://spacestationtrustfund.tumblr.com) where I occasionally post about Les Mis &/or space. Feel free to yell at me &/or cry with me. SPACE IS COOL


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